


Duke of Hell

by IsoldeDax



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, Angst and Porn, Aristocracy, Bodice-Ripper, Dark Past, Deal with a Devil, Dirty Talk, Dom Michael, F/M, Face-Sitting, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hate to Love, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jealousy, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Loss of Virginity, Love, Love/Hate, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Rape/Non-con Elements, Regency Romance, Rough Sex, Sex, Smut, Spanking, Top Michael, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2019-10-25 15:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 139,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17727767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsoldeDax/pseuds/IsoldeDax
Summary: Michael Langdon is not only England's most notorious Duke, he is the leader of a powerful organization that rules the nation by proxy. You are the bluestocking who threatens his plans. What happens when you are forced to make a sensuous, scandalous deal with the 'Devil Duke'?“What need have we of the horned, cloven footed beings in stories, Lord Langdon, when we have far worse walking among us?"MULTI CHAPTERTHIS IS A MICHAEL/READER HISTORICAL ROMANCE AU SET DURING ENGLAND'S REGENCY ERA





	1. Chapter 1

The Devil pulls the strings which make us dance;

We find delight in the most loathsome things;

Some furtherance of Hell each new day brings,

And yet we feel no horror in that rank advance.”

― Charles Baudelaire

 

Prologue

……………………………….

To say ‘all men die’ is an oversimplification.

It is true that death appears to be the natural, if inelegant, consequence of living.

Only a ninny would argue that.

Look beneath the sickly sheen of a gambling hell, see Lords frittering away their bodies and fortunes. Or walk the rookeries after dark, slosh through the life force that flows scarlet and squandered down the cobblestones, round the ankles of the rutting and begging. Smell how cheap life is there.

The affliction is universal.

The same end meets those in Grosvenor Street, as in St. Giles.

And yet.

There was, up until recently, ONE among the rank of mortals who seemed poised to break the rule.

If the grim reaper were of sound intellect, it was believed, he would have taken one look at the Late Duke Leopold Lucius Langdon and promptly turned to walk in the opposite direction.

It was a truth universally acknowledged that the poisoned orb of the universe had singled the Duke out for preference. A man who wielded as much power as he did over others must surely have had the ability to decline death.

That, as it turns out, was not the case.

Die, the old Beast has, in the bed of his Mistress, no less, at the age of eighty.

And he has left, in his wake, a howling chaos.

…And something like an empire. 

Leopold, seventh duke of Langdon, lived a life to make Satan wish to be gently doused in holy water.

To begin with, he had been the greatest whoremonger this side of Caligula. But when he wasn’t debauching ladies of the ton, or kidnapping stable boys, he bankrupted more men of fortune than the Royal Exchange. The King may have been mad (and the rumor was that his ‘condition’ had begun at one of the Duke’s own revels), and the Prince Regent ruling in his proxy, but all those of consequence knew who the REAL power in England was.

Langdon, the Brute, the Scoundrel, the Devil… And that was just what his followers called him.

Before his death, the Duke had been the leader of a shadowy confederation of aristocrats, royals and leaders of industry known as ‘The Brimstone Society’.

Forget what you think you know about the course of history.

The Brimstone Society is the power that girds the British Empire, like those hard metal rods hiding inside a voluptuous sculpture of antiquity.

Nothing that happens in the country, or beyond its borders, does so without the hand of the Brimstone Society.

Countries are annexed.

Borders are born.

Marriages are arranged.

Commerce is upheld.

Archdukes are assassinated.

Rebellions are squashed.

Armies are snapped like bamboo reeds.

…All over cognac at the Society’s headquarters at Darkholme Abbey, where the phrase ‘Fais ce que tu voudras’ is emblazoned in stained glass above the entrance, or at one of the myriads of Langdon estates, which dapple the country like mushrooms after rain, and whose very windows seem to glow with hellfire.

And there are, of course… the ‘bacchanals’. ‘Nothing seals the fate of nations quite like an orgy’, the Old Duke was fond of saying. Clad, always, in robes of papal red, he presided over countless multitudes of mock Satanic masses.

Then, as now, followers arrived wearing Venetian masks. Blood was drunk. Prostitutes, called ‘nuns’ strolled in naked packs through the premises. Oaths were made. Punishments were meted. Brains were fucked out. 

The ‘Demonic Duke’ understood the perverse power of ritual. He wielded it like a weapon, giving his followers exactly what they needed, whether it be an outlet for their basest urges, an escape from the stultifying humdrums of reality or just a really rather ribald night testing out which birds were the best for wiping one’s ass with. The Duke fed those who had the need to be incinerated in a blaze of indecorum, to be whipped, or to wield the whip, to be humiliated, to kill and disembowel (which was, among the easiest vice to cater to, given the overflow of the rookeries), to serve an entity darker than the most blood curdling content of their nightmares, to wear masks, to watch, to be watched, to be truly seen…

And in return, his followers had given the Duke everything.

They had placed their lives, livelihoods and reputations- and weren’t they all one and the same? - in his devilish hands. 

The Duke had enough blackmail material to reduce all the royal houses in Europe to pawns on his chessboard. By the time many of his followers realized that the Duke was a wakened cracken gorging himself on the blood of the sacrificed, it was entirely too late to pull out. The duke knew too much. He had sewn them under his own skin, his followers. They were embedded. They were his vassals, his property for life.

And so, there was nothing to do but continue on with the procession of wenching and drinking, and to serve their Demonic Duke till the end.

Langdon sired a wilderness of bastards by women of every stratum of society. Then, at fifty, he conceived of the notion to marry, so as to breed another self- a self to take on the mantle as heir of Hell. His unlucky bride was Lady Vivienne Silvington, the eighteen-year-old daughter of an impoverished Marquess who had practically hoisted the tearful girl into the Duke’s devouring mouth.

To call the marriage ‘unhappy’ would be slander against the concept of ‘unhappiness’.

In the year of our lord 1785, Lady Vivienne achieved the apotheosis of what the Duke called her ‘meritless existence’: she gave birth to a cherub cheeked baby boy with hair the colour of shining wheat. The fact that the bloodied effort had cost her said ‘meritless existence’ was an afterthought to the Demonic Duke, who merely bemoaned having one less female upon which to rain his torments.

It was with acrid, mocking irony that the Duke named his son ‘Michael’.

It was whispered that not a day of the Duke’s twilight years went by that was not devoted to the utter ruination of at least one worldly soul. But Michael Langdon was acknowledged to be his masterpiece of corruption.

It was as much a philosophical exercise as anything else.

How does one create an evil being?

Can a child be warped until they are a thing viler and more radiant than human?

He was a strange child from the first. Too poised. Too clever. Unfeeling. Those were the popular descriptors for the Duke in waiting. The very word ‘child’ seemed to be at odds with the reality of him.

From an early age, he clung to nursemaids with embarrassing zeal.

This, by his Father’s ordinance, was soon beaten out of him.

The Duke also arranged to have the nursemaids beaten, under the eye of the boy, so that he might witness, firsthand, what the taint of his love had wrought.

The same principle was applied to kittens, puppies and any other creature that the child had the temerity to coddle.

Until he got the point.

And, O, did Michael get the point…

Following this, the boy was disposed to solitude, spending nearly every waking hour in the gloom of a dust covered attic he had appropriated in the North tower of the Langdon Ancestral home. Here, he could be found reading or scribbling corrections in the margins of scientific books or solving puzzle cubes.

Michael did not suffer other children well, or most people, generally. He was cruel. But it was not the casual, careless cruelty of a child. He wanted to see the spectrum of reactions that one could create in people, to measure their wounds even as he inflicted them. This was why he had made the oldest Bifrons girl cry at her own birthday picnic and ordered the harelipped gardener not to smile at him. How else would he have learned all about the special dispensation that his position had bestowed, and what the limits of it were?

On the one occasion that Michael summoned up the courage to ask his Father what his Mother had been like, the old man had calmly replied that she had been ‘a human pissoir’. Then, he had called the games keeper in to give Michael fifty lashes (the Demon Duke never did get his own hands dirty).

Though he bled and bled, and tears streamed down his face, Michael did not cry out.

He strove to treat every blow and every scorn like one of his fossil specimens, an object to be examined, catalogued, then discreetly put away. In this way, he gleaned a pleasure of purpose in the lowest of miseries. He told himself that it was practice, all practice… He that could suffer in silence, who could appear like a statue in the face of anguish, could conquer the whole grudging world.

When he was fourteen, Michael’s Father took him to a brothel in the West End. The place was seedy, for all its attempts to appear otherwise. The Duke presented his Son with a powdered, flaxen haired Venus and lingered in the room while the quick, humiliating act occurred.

From then on Michael had willed himself into a state of detachment where carnal pleasures were concerned. This carried on for years.

Shortly after his deflowering, Michael was shuffled off to Hawthorne Academy. Among the cohort of future Dukes and Prime ministers- aka, future members of the Brimstone Society- the rot in Michael’s soul rooted and flourished. He was proud, in truth, when the fact of his possessing a soul at all came into public doubt.

Enfolded within this cloister of adolescent barbarism, Michael was, as ever, presented with a choice: hurt or be hurt.

He blithely chose the former.

The power that coursed through him when he inflicted suffering unto others became an intoxicant more heady than brandy or mead.

Where once he had lived every moment of his existence in paralyzed fear, now Michael ruled the sordid little cosmos of Hawthorne. He made other boys into his slaves.

Violence, he soon found, was not the only catharsis.

Control was too. The ability to make others enact his will. The ability to make his peers do things to one another that would make their cheeks burn with shame long after the fact. The humiliations that singed them for life… How easy for Michael to forget, while basking in the ripe, low hanging pain of others, that his own life was a never-ending migraine.

Michael returned to Langdon Hall the summer he turned eighteen expecting to meet a foe. But by all appearances, his Father’s attitude toward him had changed. He now seemed delighted by what Michael had become, namely a blade formed under the hammer of anger and loneliness.

They drank brandy together in the Mahogany paneled study in the North Wing. The Duke revealed himself. He outlined all the myriad of ways he kept hold of his power. He had ordered killings. And tortures. And worse. He had defiled the good and upheld the foul. The Brimstone Society was a multi headed beast with but one brain: the Duke of Langdon’s.

Michael listened, spellbound with awe, and pierced with hatred. His Father, it would appear, ruled the world.

A whisper of impulse told him to run.

He stayed instead.

And drank.

He absorbed the Duke’s contempt for life as though it were wave after wave of sunshine, penetrating deep, warming the spaces between his bones. 

If he allowed himself to soften, Michael knew, all that he had worked to become would slip away, like a lizard’s tail from a child’s cruel fingers.

For three months, the Duke mentored his heir.

Then came the transfiguring moment, which, like a knife’s blade, divided Michael’s life neatly into before and after.

It involved a woman.

And, unfortunately, it also involved his Father.

But let us not speak of that now…

Suffice is to say, by the time Michael had realized his blunder, it was too late. His pride and his hopes were exploded like the entrails of a seagull smashed against rocks by the pitiless ocean.

Having been savaged more thoroughly by his own stupidity than he ever had under a gamekeeper’s whip, Michael fled the country, and vowed never to speak to his Father again.

There followed a profligate sojourn wandering the Continent, after which Michael settled in Paris to live with his Mother’s Spinster sister, Lady Miriam Meade.

Ten years passed.

During his decade away, a strange thing happened. In England, rumours circulated that the Son had become even fouler than the Father. The name ‘Michael Langdon’ wafted like pollen through salons and drawing rooms, seeding many a fevered imagination. It was said that Marquess Langdon, as he had then been known, shared his Father’s penchant for evil deeds, that he even dabbled in human sacrifice. It was said that he feasted on the hearts of virgins; that he ran an exclusive brothel catering only to those who had sold their souls to Satan, and that it was stocked not with regular prostitutes, but with society Madames, ‘real ladies’, whom Michael, by sheer power of his persuasive magnetism, had brought to whoredom. It was said that he was funding experiments that could galvanize the dead, that he had personally ‘tampered’ with corpses in pursuit of ‘science’.

By the time the old Duke died, Michael, now the NEW Duke of Langdon, was generally acknowledged- and, it must be said, justifiably so- to be one of the most depraved libertines in the country.

Naturally, he succeeded his Father as the leader of The Brimstone Society.

Naturally, it is whispered that The Brimstone Society has quadrupled its power and nefariousness since the ascension of its new leader.

And naturally, a rival confederation has risen to challenge The Brimstone Society’s infernal dominance. 

Peopled, as it is, almost entirely by women, the group has taken to calling itself, with a wry nod to the prejudice and injustice historically inflicted upon their sex, ‘the Coven.’

 

 

……………………………………………………….

Sometimes, life does the improbable thing, and surprises you pleasantly.

You arrived in London almost one year ago expecting to suffer all of the indignities of an unmarried, impoverished woman of your class.

It was not an uncommon condition, you knew, being a ‘poor relation’, but that made it no less ignoble. Your survival depended upon the generosity and benevolence of the Vanderbilts, the family of your late Mother’s sister.

While Lady Regan, your aunt, had famously ensnared Lord Valentine Vanderbilt, Earl of Mannex, in the bloom of her very first season, your Mother had ‘languished on the vine’, and eventually ‘stooped’ to wed the second son of a Viscount, who had no fortune, a wasting lung condition, and an ‘unfortunate infatuation with astronomy’.

Your mother died in childbed when you were only a year old.

Your Father died last Spring. He left you no dowry, no fortune and no means to speak of. You miss him more than can be expressed by every pin prick of light in the milky way.

You and Papa were twin souls. Binary stars.

Instead of sending you to some vapid ‘finishing school’, Papa personally tutored you in Greek, Latin, Arabic and, most rhapsodically, astronomy.

You used to stay up till the light of dawn reading about Achilles and Patroclus.

You used to listen breathlessly as Papa read aloud from his correspondence with Caroline Herschel.

Or look at sketches of the Alhambra, at the tiles that contained all seventeen possible wallpaper groups. You would listen to the low tones of his voice, and let your mind become lost in the white, blue and black tessellations until they spread from the pages in your lap, across the floor and to the ceiling, until the repetitive patterns began to spool into your dreams.

Some have called this upbringing ‘imprudent’. Some have clucked their tongues and said that your status as an incurable bluestocking only serves to further tarnish your already meagre chances of doing what is prescribed to you by the society that would be your prison: finding a husband.

You and Papa always had a good laugh at this. You were both too consumed by speculation regarding the dimensions of the comet of 1811 to consider your value as a trinket in the humiliating bazaar known as the ‘London season’.

It never occurred to you that he might leave you all alone. Even though Papa had wheezed and whistled with every breath, even though his body had been small and bent, he had seemed sprightly, durable as a feather.

He was resolved to take in the air of the Alps. Nothing could dissuade him. You packed lightly. Expecting to come back before May.

You remember Papa running against the snow, with his wild white beard and wilder still eye brows- the man the ton dismissed as mad.

But he was not mad.

Even in death, his slackened face appeared to retain a trace of curiosity, as though he was delighted to confront whatever lies beyond the eternal silence.

You returned to England alone, secure in the knowledge that the brightest era of your life had reached its indisputable end. From now on, it seemed reasonable to assume, you would occupy the world in much the manner of a ghost, passed from relative, to relative, aiding in the raising of other’s children, subsisting on charity, never complaining, never desiring. Only in the secret Kingdom of your own mind, would you live freely, awestruck and shameless as one of Euripides’ maenads.

You were wrong, however. Blissfully wrong.

The Vanderbilts, it turned out, were a warm, welcoming brood. Their daughter, Coco, a spirited heiress renowned London over as a ‘diamond of the first water’, quickly became your bosom sister.

One night after the candles went out and you lay whispering in girlish conspiracy on the pillow, Coco revealed to you her deepest secret.

“I am not a virgin.”

In the darkness, you could just make out the soft planes of your friend’s face, cradled by the gold, undulating river of her hair.

This was most shocking.

“Y-you’re not?”

You heard her head shake.

“Lord Sotherton relieved me of my virtue last Autumn.”

You were not sure what to say to this. You had seen Lord Sotherton on a number of occasions. He always seemed to be patrolling the fringes of ballrooms, his handsome, black eyed face scowling like the demon in the far corner of a Bosch painting. Coco’s mother informed you that ‘Sotherton is in the market for a rich wife’. Apparently, his estate in Yorkshire was crumbling, and, to make matters stickier, he was rather fond of gambling. You wondered, at the time, if this had been said as a friendly deterrent to your forming an interest in the brooding, fortune hunting man yourself. But now, the way the old Countess’s brow had darkened when her eyes met the shape of him held new meaning.   

Coco continued, sounding airy and unperturbed. “It was lovely, really. He had his man drive him to the back garden one night after the opera. We had agreed to it. He had a bonny time climbing the trellises!” She giggled into the darkness, then sighed. “It happened in this very room.”

The thought of Coco rolling around with Lord Sotherton on the bed you currently occupied made your cheeks burn. Crumpet, Coco’s steadfastly loyal Pomeranian appeared unphased, nuzzled as she was with his face against Coco’s legs, and one paw grazing yours.

“Sotherton was very gentle with me,” professed Coco. “He ushered me over a kind of… threshold that I had not yet been able reach by myself.”

Your face grew hotter. Could it be that you were discussing…onanism… with her gently bred friend? The frankness with which Coco related what happened was both staggering and refreshing. A science minded young lady like you should not balk at the processes of the human body, you told yourself.

Your Papa had, much to the consternation of his relatives, furnished you with anatomical books containing information on human reproduction. You knew the mechanics, so to speak. But never in your life had you heard the act spoken of so brazenly. And by a Lady.

You wondered about it sometimes. Sex. You’d been infatuated. Papa had a friend in the Astronomical Society whom you harboured girlish crush on years ago. A bespectacled Prussian with awkward, gangly arms and a passion for meteor rocks. But that faded quickly, and of course, the young man never knew.

And now, at two and twenty, you were galloping headlong into entrenched spinsterhood.

Usually, when you become interested in a subject, be it the work of the late, great Antoine Lavoisier, or the Minoan civilization, or the territorial nature of hummingbirds, you have access to books. But the activities that seem to be the natural amelioration of lust, love, infatuation- whatever- these are just beyond the circle of your understanding. It burns your scholarly pride to think of yourself as a blind, lost soul when it comes to something that is nearly as habitual to human life as eating. EXPERIENCE, in this instance, seems crucial to the construction of knowledge.

Experience that, most likely, you will never have. 

Because your prospects for marriage are grim at best.

And a woman who gives herself away out of wedlock is considered ‘ruined’.

Lately, however, you have imagined, again and again, what it might feel like.

SEX.

And yet, what use is there to imagine? Imagination is, by its nature, individual and untransmittable (although language does its best, you suppose). To become intimately entangled with another person is powerful precisely because it was NOT imagination, because it is not the dominion of ONE alone. That, you suppose is where the magic lies.

Above all, as you lay beside your friend Coco that night, whispering of carnal relations, you hoped desperately not to appear a child or a prude.

“I fell asleep in his arms, and when I awoke he was gone,” Coco said. “I was grateful that HE at least had had the wherewithal to flee before Lucy came in to stoke the fire. I proceeded with my morning as though I were floating on a cloud. Until, that was, I noticed that one of my favorite silk stockings was missing.”

An anxious bubble arose in your chest upon hearing that.

“Lucy checked everywhere. It simply could not be found. At first we thought maybe Crumpet had taken it, but there were none in the place where she usually stashes things. Slowly, it began to dawn on me that Lord Sotherton had absconded with it!”

It seemed to you, then, to be a morbidly indecent thing for a man to pilfer such an intimate slip of silk… You imagined Lord Sotherton spiriting the feminine thing into his pocket and leaping like a burglar through the window onto the thorny, rose covered trellis. Had he shown it to his drunken cohort of Lords over brandy and a game of Piquet? “How vexed you must have been, Coco…” you breathed. 

Coco’s musical laugh broke the darkness. “HA! I, naïve fool that I was, believed it to have been taken as a sentimental token of our… understanding. I rushed to tell Lucy the good news. Not only had I been most pleasurably ruined, but I had been ruined by a man so enflamed with passion for me that he smuggled out my fripperies to wear concealed against his heart!”

You wondered how your beloved friend could retain such calm and self awareness speaking of the ordeal.

“I was wrong of course,” said Coco glumly. “He was not ‘in a passion’ at all. He merely wanted to blackmail me into marrying him, WHICH I WOULD HAVE DONE ANYWAY, he being such the dreadful, handsome devil, but NOT after he intimated his plans to coerce me into it!”

“What happened?” you asked.

“A few days after our night together, I chanced to see Lord Sotherton at Lady Burton’s musicale. As everyone’s attention was preoccupied with either napping through the musicians snore inducing Haydn trio, or wishing that they were, Lord Sotherton clasped my arm and pulled me into the adjoining room for what I had HOPED would be another thorough rogering. Do you know what I got?”

You smiled. “Not a ‘rogering’, I take it?”

“No!” exclaimed Coco. “This blundering LOBCOCK looked me dead in the face and told me that if I did not agree to marry him- thus making him the eleventh richest man in England- he would host a hunting party at his estate in Yorkshire, and my stocking would serve as the centrepiece at dinner!”

You clutched your chest. What a scoundrel Lord Sotherton was! You were filled with searing rage on behalf of Coco.

“What a fiend! O Coco, what did you do? Y-you aren’t… secretly engaged to him, are you?”

Coco laughed. “NO! I wouldn’t be if he begged my forgiveness and promised we’d live in a thatched hut off the Mersey.”

“What happened?”

You could just make out the sliver of Coco’s smile in the murk of the room.

“Lady Goode happened,” she whispered.

That night, Coco revealed to you what Cordelia Goode, fifth Duchess of Devonshire did when she was not curled over her pianoforte or collecting Sevres porcelain.

“Of all the people in the world, I knew that I could trust my Father’s Sister, Cordelia, with my shameful secret.”

“You told her?”

Coco nodded.

“What did she say?”

“She told me not to be ashamed. She said that I had done no wrong, and that it was Lord Sotherton who should wear the yoke of disgrace. O, Y/n, how I wept, then, to hear those words! Aunt Cordelia said that it was time to affect a revolution of sorts. She said that we women are systematically degraded. That we are said to ‘fall’ when we behave in a manner that would make a man celebrated.”

“She has no argument with me there,” you said. You were inundated by memories of all the boys who had mocked your interest in anything scientific, who had dismissed you from their discussions, who had insulted your ‘feminine weakness’ so as to buffet their own imagined superiority. You had taken it stoically. You had not cried until you were ell away, in the privacy of your own bedroom, with only your indifferent astrolabes to bear witness.

“Aunt Cordelia said that I should not worry, that she had a plan for Lord Sotherton, and that he would come to regret ever blackmailing me.”   

That was when Coco regaled you with the first you’d ever hear of Cordelia and her ‘Coven’.

After his little escapade, Lord Sotherton retired to his club, where he was plied with expensive port by one Mr. Thomas Gallant, a wealthy textile merchant lately clawing his way into the ton.

When Sotherton had drunken himself into a sufficiently dribbling stupor, Gallant and his Valet, Cross, hoisted the crumpled man into a black paneled coach and delivered him to the Goode estate in Bedfordshire.

When he awoke, the abominable man found himself in a dungenous space, with scores of red lanterns drooping from the shadows above. Surrounding him, in glow of vengeful crimson, were a consortium of veiled women. Their clothing was the uncompromising black of raven’s wings. There were six of them in all.

“W-wh-what is the meaning of this?” the scoundrel sputtered. “W-where’s Gallant?”

“SILENCE,” came a thunderous voice. Thunderous, and female.

“I DEMAND to know where I am,” whimpered Sotherton. Even his whimpering was steeped in entitlement. The man had neither worked nor suffered a day in his life. All he knew was that he was born to land, and therefore born to power, and therefore born to rule over the inferior lives of others.  

“If you do not comprehend the meaning of ‘silence’, you will have your tongue cut out,” promised the voice of Duchess Goode. “And perhaps,” she added more silkily, “that will not be the last appendage that you part with tonight.”

That had Lord Sotherton frightened.

“It is my understanding that, one week ago, you separated a young Lady from her favorite stocking…”

Coco related how the ‘Coven’ had Lord Sotherton snivelling and crying and begging by the end of the encounter. Not only had he returned Coco’s stocking, in tact, but he had promised, on pain of his life, never to tell a living soul of what had transpired between them.

This was not good enough for the Duchess, however, who needed insurance. She made Sotherton draw up a letter, in his own hand, detailing precisely how much he owed his creditors, and what lows he had sunken to in order to assuage his debts. ‘Young Miss Vanderbilt,’ he wrote, ‘is innocent of all claims I might make to sully her reputation. I am now, as ever a carnal cur.’ He then gave Lady Goode a list of all the people to whom he owed money. She laughed to see the name of her dear friend, Mr. Gallant, included therein.

The man was given a few knocks on the head, then scuttled back to the city.

Needless to say, he never troubled Coco again.

There was, however, still the unfortunate matter of Coco’s ‘ruination’.

“I’ll say I bled from riding my horse,” said the girl cheerfully. “I’m a dreadful good rider and I don’t always ride side saddle. It makes Mama apoplectic.” Coco sighed. “But for all I know, I might not wish to marry at all. I’m in the Coven now, you see. It takes up a lot of my energy. We dole out justice to scoundrels. In September, when Lady Georgiana Millwood’s husband was beating her blue and bloody, she came to the Coven for help. Cordelia arranged to have the fiend ‘accidentally’ shipped off to Australia. He died of fever a month into the journey. Isn’t it glorious?”

The next day, you, Coco, her Mother, and a retinue of ladies maids adjourned to Bedfordshire, where you met Cordelia in the flesh.

The loveliest features of that face, you quickly decided, were the cornflower blue eyes. They were kind eyes, but they also looked as though they had gazed, unblinkingly into the core of a planet, and absorbed the molten fortitude therein. When Cordelia smiled at you, it was not the sort of pitying smile that you were accustomed to receiving from those betters who were acquainted with your family’s troubles; it was a smile that marked the first overture of deep friendship.

Within a fortnight, you were a card-carrying member of the Coven.

………………………………………………………………….

“Langdon will be at the ball tonight,” announces Cordelia to the room of coiffed and manicured ladies, and Mr. Gallant, readying themselves for the Burton’s annual Ball like berserkers donning wolf and bear hides before battle.

Mr. Gallant, who has a way with hair, is turning Coco’s head into a tumble of perfect, yellow coils. “I heard it whispered at the club that the Brimstone Society is going to enact one of it’s ‘Black Masses’ tonight after the ball,” he says. “It is going to happen at an as-yet-undisclosed location.”

“Darkholme Abbey?” suggests Lady Zoe Benson, the clever daughter of the Earl of Norwich. 

Misty Day shudders. “Last time they saw fit to meet there, a man were kidnapped from one of the rookeries. They found him stone’s throw from the abbey, and his heart were cut right out of his body. Miss!”

Misty, unlike others present in the room, has a foot and an ear in the slums of London. She was born in one, to a prostitute who sold her to a work house when she was eight years old. Misty caught the eye of the late Duke Vanderbilt, Coco’s grandfather, during one of his charity visits there. Appalled by the conditions, and charmed by the gold-locked moppet, he brought Misty home to train to be Cordelia’s ladies maid.

The girls were only three years apart in age. They grew up together and formed a friendship which swelled over the years into something uncontainable, into something that the late Duchess, Cordelia’s mother, had called ‘grotesque.’

It slowly dawned on Cordelia and Misty, and when it did, they stood together in a cloud of mutual shock. The bond that they shared had seized their souls and led them away from what was commonly held to be ‘right’. Without this girl, Cordelia realized, she did not wish to be alive at all. On the night she reached the age of her majority, Cordelia took Misty’s hand in her own, and led her into the bonfire of their ruin, with a heart lighter than air. The next morning, her Mother had Misty thrown out of the house. Cordelia was told that, if she did not submit to marry John Henry Goode, Duke of Devonshire, the former maid would be given no references and thus be forced to sell her body on the streets to avoid starvation. She had ranted and railed, had Cordelia, but was given no quarter.

So, red eyed and trembling, she married John Henry. The man was kind, thoughtful and handsome as it turned out, and, a fortnight into the marriage, had left her untouched. It took several more months for Cordelia to discover, to her boundless joy, the similarities they shared.

John Henry was only too happy to ‘allow’ Cordelia to enlist Misty as ‘her personal maid’. And she, in turn, was only too happy to share her home/s with the ever-diverting Mr. Gallant.

Gallant was her late husbands great love. Misty is Cordelia’s.

For twelve years, they had lived in paradise.

John Henry’s political ambitions had soared.

Cordelia became the toast of the ton.   

Theirs was happiest of marriages. They gave one another the power to live in public and private.

A day does not go by that Cordelia does not miss John Henry. Her husband died, you have been informed, from injuries sustained during a riding accident. The fact that the accident had occurred on the Langdon Estate, and that John Henry had been poised to become Prime Minister… raises suspicion among the Coven. 

“If only we had an inside man!” exclaims Lady Queenie. “But alas… the blasted Brimstone Society prides itself on its lack of female members!”

“One of us could pose as a prostitute,” offers Ms. Madison Montgomery, whose Grandfather, Colonel Montgomery, was Lord Trafalgar’s right-hand man.

“NO ONE is posing as a prostitute,” intones Cordelia.

Madison looks disappointed. “La, what a shame, I have just the dress for the occasion.”

“Most probably you won’t be requiring a dress,” says Queenie drolly. “Which is a pity, as you wouldn’t be able STUFF anything.”

Madison’s gaze narrows on her oft opponent. “I wouldn’t go as a HEDGE WHORE, Queenie, I’M NOT YOU.” She raises her blonde head imperiously. “I would affect the identity of a Parisian courtesan.”

Queenie is about to sling back something, but Cordelia interrupts their sparring. “What you both forget, Dears, is that Langdon has been wading in Parisian courtesans for the better part of a decade. He likely knows them all by name, age and proportions, which means your ruse would be discovered- likely with deadly consequences.”

That is a thing you are always reminding yourself: the Brimstone Society kills.

Langdon kills.

Madison visibly pales, turning a shade whiter than her gauzy ballgown. She is outfitted in a dress of white with gold and peach medallions decorating the sheer overlay. Like Coco, she is a beautiful, wealthy young woman, a prize for many a fortune hunting young Lord, a prize for anyone, really, you think.

You look down at your own gown. It is ill fitting, and the navy-blue colour is darker than is currently fashionable. It is one of Coco’s cast offs. And you know you ought to be grateful for it.

Besides, you are not going to the ball to entertain yourself. Or- heaven forbid- to catch a husband.

You are going to gather intelligence on the scourge upon humanity that calls itself ‘The Brimstone Society’.

And you are fearless.

You are prepared.

You will not balk.

Even if it means that you are probably going to encounter HIM again…

“Even if we were to bring some crime or other of the Brimstone Society to light,” posits Zoe, “how would we go about bringing them to justice? Their members operate in the highest echelons of society and government. They control EVERYTHING. They could easily cover it up.”

“It won’t be easy,” says Cordelia, “They may threaten our reputations, our liberties, our very lives. But we cannot simply sit idly by whilst they prey upon the least enfranchised among us.”

There is a murmur of agreement around the room.

“I think the important thing is to bring down Langdon himself,” says Madison. “He is the puppeteer of the whole enterprise. And let’s not forget that he is still a new leader. If he were to lose his footing, perhaps the rest would fall like a house of cards.”

“What do you think?” asks Queenie, turning, rather alarmingly, to you.

“W-what do I think?” you sputter.

“Yes, you, Y/n,” says Queenie with a twinkle in her eyes. “You and Langdon clearly have something going on betwixt the two of you…”

“What?! No!” you protest. “Honestly, Queenie, just because he took it upon himself to ridicule me at a few parties…”

“Ridicule?” laughs Queenie. “The Duke goes after you like a Fox Hound on a pheasant… Zooks, I wonder that you are still standing!”

All eyes in the room fix uncomfortably upon you.

“I-I don’t know what to say. If you want an explanation as to why Lord Langdon is so relentlessly rude to me, all I can offer is that I am the one among our consortium without prospects or parents or status, and he… feels at ease, given my status, to hold none of his poison back.”

You say it without a shred a self pity. It is simply your working theory, and you hope that the Coven will understand.

It beggars your own understanding why the Duke of Langdon always seems to ‘go after’ you at social functions. The world is his unlucky oyster, but it is you he chooses to peck and pluck at, over and over again… 

It started the evening you met at Countess Vanderbilt’s musicale.

To begin with: Langdon’s beauty is terror. Terror right down to the skin of his soul.

His eyes, in particular, came as a blow when first you encountered them. You were put in mind of a supernova imprisoned in Venetian glass. The face that contains them is a stunning alchemy of angles and softness. ‘A perfect profile’, is what your Grand Mama Muriel would have accused Lord Langdon of having, the nose being neither small, nor overly large, but captivatingly sharp and enduring in memory. The Duke is tall. When he approached you that night, you could see elegant cords of muscle moving through the straining black fabric of his waistcoat. His hair is the colour of antique gold and falls in loose curls around his head. When Countess Vanderbilt introduced you, you had the thought that your immortal soul would be a fair price to pay to brush your cheek against its softness, just once.

You did not have a sense, at first, that you had made any impression upon Lord Langdon at all. The Countess stood between you, and kept talking, a breathless litany about chamber music and ballet.

You were shocked to paralysis when it happened. Blood rushed to your head as though a hatchet had been thrust there… In full view of anyone who might have chanced to look- including Countess Vanderbilt a mere hair breath away, Lord Langdon placed the black, pointed toe of his boot on top of your own shoddily apparelled one, and, with infinite slowness, proceeded to press it painfully into the floor.

You nearly cried out.

Vicious pain licked up from your toe into your leg and entire body. Your own disbelief surged to meet the agony. It must be a mistake, you thought, it was impossible that this could really be happening… 

Then your eyes met his, and the Duke smiled at you with all the glory of a conqueror. It rendered you speechless with rage at the same time as it melted your insides.

The immediacy of pain was replaced by the immediacy of shame. And, to your neverending self recrimination, arousal.

‘How long will it last?’ you asked the Duke without words.

And his terrible eyes seemed to answer: ‘As long as it takes for you to learn.’

Countess Vanderbilt talked on and Langdon’s foot pressed harder.

‘He is a sadist’, you realized, schooling your features into neutrality. 

It stopped only when the musicians began totune their instruments.

You haven’t told any of the other Coven members about the…foot incident.

But they have gathered, through watching your brief but charged interactions with the Duke over the past fortnight, that there is, indeed, ‘something going on’.

What in Hades it is, you have no idea.

………………………………..

Lady Burton has seen fit to order her ballroom decorated with gardenia and orange blossoms. The air teems with the sweet smell, as music and champagne pour forth. The floor is a whirling pattern of dancers. Lord Brock Billington has engaged Coco in her first, second and third waltz of the evening. Mr. Gallant takes Lady Cordelia in hand and sail across the room.

You are comfortable watching, being the wallflower. Whatever attentions you have received from Gentleman this evening, have, you know, been a mere contrivance to connect them with Coco, or Madison. Queenie announces, at the commencement of the dancing, that she too is a ‘wallflower’. But soon, Lord Fullerton is glancing in her direction and she steals with him into the gardens.

You are not prepared for the arrival of the Duke of Langdon.

You are not prepared for the iridescent games the candle light plays with his hair, or the leather breeches (!!!), or the blood red lining of his fitted tail coat, or the cane he brandishes, with the horned devil head handle.

With languid, menacing grace, the Duke moves toward you, and the room seems to blur around him like a featureless kaleidoscope. You steel yourself as Lord Langdon stops to stand imposingly before you and rakes you with a look that you are shocked does not end you right then and there.

Dear God. HIS EYES.

You once saw this exact colour of aquamarine in the glacial silt of an alpine spring in Soll. That had been during your Father’s final month of life, when he had thought to chase away his illness by taking you with him to Austria and running up mountains with a pick axe. You wonder, not for the first time, what your ‘eccentric’ of a Papa would have made of Lord Langdon. You have a notion that the old swot would have ducked into perilous, ice filled crevasses and come up with redemptive qualities for him. Like the fact that, in the company of this vile young man, you could never be bored. It is impossible. Even the flare of his nostrils is compelling.

“Lord Langdon,” you say, with a perfunctory curtsey.

“Ms. Y/n,” he nods. The Duke says your name as though it is a bad taste he cannot wait to get out of his mouth.

Your brain grapples for small talk.

It needn’t bother.

Lord Langdon has a merciless habit of cutting to the quick.

“Still languishing at the Vanderbilt’s then, are we Ms. Y/n? I see, by the drabness and ill fit of your gown, that they have yet to tire of you.”

Before the needle-sharp comment can even find its landing, Langdon goes on.

“You see, if they wished to be rid of you, they might have furnished you with a less unsightly gown, one that would do more for your woeful proportions. Then, perhaps, one of those imbred, chinless clodpoles that Coco calls her ‘cousins’ might lower themselves and ask you for a dance. A mere flick of a compromised situation later, and you might find yourself wed.”

You blink, and stare at Lord Langdon.

He stares back.

You are the subject of the purest, brightest beacon of scorn that has ever fallen upon anyone. It makes you feel both microscopic and grotesquely conspicuous. A sensation of heat spreads across your face and stomach.

At the same time, awareness shoots through you like liquid mercury, ‘he is looking at my body!’ you think, growing featherbrained.

The more pathetic it feels, the more you hate him.

Gazing now, at Langdon’s startling face, you are filled with longing, and a swell of anger so sharp that almost makes you cry.

Yes. You hate this man with more passion than you ever thought possible.

The Duke has been endowed with more gifts than most could ever dream of. He has wealth, intelligence, status, beauty, and, you think bitterly: he is a man. It would take so little to make people believe in him. He could make the world better if he wanted.

Yes- you know- by all accounts, his Father was a monster. Surely, you think, there must be a painful story dwelling in there somewhere, or else why would the younger Langdon have run away?

Cordelia has said, on more than one occasion, that you lend your compassion too freely. And it IS easy to gaze upon Langdon, even as he is hurling insults, and forget who he really is. Usurption, murder, kidnapping, Satanic rituals and who knows what else, that is what the Duke has chosen to devote himself to. The lives and dreams of fellow mortals are but dust beneath his boots.

 “Am I meant to be wounded by that, Sir?” you say coolly, “the fact that you dislike my gown? Or is it my bosoms that should bear the brunt of shame? O dear, Lord Langdon disapproves of my appearance, excuse me while I go throw myself into the Thames.”

“It would be an improvement,” Langdon replies in a deadly, silken voice.

You wonder, for the fiftieth hundredth time, why this man, who has all of England in his pocket, shivering and fearing him, would bother to pepper you with his insults. He is funny that way, is Langdon. A little like a school boy. A little like a child.

“I’ll consider the advice,” you say brightly. “We all know that you set the trends in London, my Lord, which must be why every man at this ball is dressed as though he is engaged to play Lucifer in a West End adaptation of ‘Paradise Lost’.”

It is not so much a smile that Langdon gives you but the smallest tightening in one corner of his mouth. “I would have thought Milton too hot blooded for your dry, missish sensibilities, Ms. Y/n.”

DRY? MISSISH?

If he only knew the terrible things going on under your petticoats…

Michael draws closer, until you can feel his breath gust across your face. The feeling liquifies your spine.  “Do you believe in the Devil, Y/n?” he whispers, too close.

“What need have we of the horned, cloven footed beings in stories, Lord Langdon, when we have far worse walking among us? Far worse, in fact, dictating the order of the sphere in which we breathe and step and conduct our lives?”

It is a dangerous comment, you know. You are playing with fire.

Michael looks amused. “There are Devils dictating the order of your sphere, Ms. Y/n? As they do in Milton? My Dear, you take poetry far too seriously…”

You shrug. “My Father read me Milton in the cradle. I find him soothing.” You don’t know what prompted it, this invocation of your Father. It is a mistake. Papa is where you are soft and vulnerable. You should not have invoked Papa while sparring with the Devil. Maybe you only said it to distract yourself from the twist you felt in your stomach when Langdon used the phrase ‘my Dear…’

The Duke seizes his opportunity. “Ah yes: Sir. Reginald Balthazar Y/L/N,” he says in a voice thick with mockery. You would like to slap him for speaking the name. “A perennial eccentric, your Father. I once attended a lecture by him at the Royal Astronomical Society.”

This surprises and momentarily disarms you.

“He had a somniferous effect on the audience, as I recall,” adds Langdon.

You feel the insult like a whip.

“Perhaps the material was too dense for you to understand, My Lord.”

“Perhaps.” Langdon smiles. “You know, remembering that sparky little man that tapped so nervously against the podium stand, I can see where you get your gall, Ms. Y/n.”

You blink. “Gall?”

“Yes,” replies the Duke in his smuggest, velvetiest voice, “To speak to me, in the boldfaced manner that you do.”

Your head spins. YOU are not the one who instigates these little sparring matches. It is always Langdon who seeks you out, who pulls he first arrow, as if merely for the pleasure of watching you bleed. You who have so comparatively little...

“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment, My Lord, though I am sure it was not intended as such,” you reply curtly.

“It wasn’t.”

“Duly noted.”

“Your boldness is dangerous, Ms. Y/n,” says Langdon, drawing closer. “You have taken, of late, to consorting with Lady Cordelia Goode and her misguided gaggle of Harpies.” He leans in the whisper, “It is liable to get you hurt.”

You stagger at this. You have the sense that, beneath his façade of indifference, nay HOSTILITY, -the Duke’s observation- or is it a warning? - is anything BUT. Why does he care what you do, or whoyou consort with?

“And WHO is liable to hurt me, Lord Langdon, the imagined Devils, or the real?”

Michael frowns, jutting out the lush pillow of his bottom lip. “Spare me your pathetic attempts at cleverness, Ms. Y/n,” he says in a tone all the more devastating for its calm and silk. “No doubt your Addle Pate of a Father heralded you as his precious little prodigy. It has led you into the bizarre conviction that you are something more than you are, which is a dim witted, nattering scrap of an imp in a bad dress.”

You have a thick skin. It has developed over years of weathering the hurricanes of ridicule your Father inspired wherever you went. Or perhaps it comes from not having your Papa anymore, from the condition of being alone, which is your reality, despite even the beautiful confederacy of the Coven.

But what Lord Langdon says peirces, as though he has found the tiniest space between your dragon’s scales and pushed inside with his blade.

Langdon is cruel. Langdon does not deserve your rebuke. 

Still, you cannot help yourself.

You answer him before you can think better of it. “And you, Sir, were heralded by YOUR Father as a mirror of his own corruption, which has led you to become a taunting, bitter man who gives vent to his anger upon any warm body that happens to have the misfortune of crossing his path.”

You see Langdon’s expression change, it flickers with displeasure, then something like admiration before finally shuttering again. “Perhaps,” he allows. “But it is your Father that did you the greater disservice, Y/n when he raised you as he would a son. He enflamed your mind with knowledge and the desire for that which would ever be barred from you. What a cruelty that was.”

You frown. “I am sure that if YOU had a daughter, My Lord, you would raise her on a diet of ignorance and dancing lessons?”

Langdon looks at you with an intensity that were not prepared for.

“Had I a daughter, Ms. Y/n, I would have her tear out the tree of knowledge from its roots and use it as kindling with which to burn the world. I would not rest a moment until it was remade in HER image, until she could live a life equal in opportunity to that of a man. That is what I would do, had I a daughter” With that Lord Langdon turns his heel. “I bid you good evening, Ms. Y/n.”

As he is walking away, Langdon is seized upon by his Aunt, Lady Miriam Meade. She says something- and this is distinctly audible to you- about the ‘house on 11 Wimpole Street’.

Then he disappears once more into the kaleidoscope of the room, leaving you feeling- most disturbingly- bereft.

“WHAT were you two talking about?” asks Coco, running toward you with a flute of champagne in her hand. “The Duke was looking at you like he hasn’t eaten for weeks.”

You redden and recoil. “COCO!”

“It’s true. I half thought you might slink away to the balcony and throw him some hors d'oeuvres.”

You shake your head incredulously. “Coco, Langdon is likely the evillest man in Britain!”

“Doesn’t that add a certain something?” asks Coco dreamily.

You shake off these ridiculous assertions and pull Coco in to whisper, “Coco, I think I know where the Brimstone Society are meeting tonight.” You tell her about the address in Wimpole Street.

Coco gasps. “Let’s go there,” she suggests. “I have the coach tonight. Sanderson will take us. He’ll have to agree because I promised not to tell Mama about how he’s been carrying on with the fourth house maid.”

“Do you think Cordelia would want us to go?”

“Of course not,” replies Coco honestly. “But what good are we to the coven if we don’t boldly stick our own necks out every once in a while?”

You consider this statement. Then remember Michael’s. He said you had GALL. GALL.

For talking to him.

You’ll show him GALL.

Just like that, you and Coco resolve to crash a meeting of the Brimstone Society.

That is the moment your terrible fate is sealed.

………………………………………………

Michael knows that he has only an hour before the meeting begins.

He circles into his study at the house on Wimpole street and, slamming the door behind him, cuts a trajectory to the cabinet where he keeps his liquor. The walls of the room are lined with books; identical volumes of bound brown leather that he has filled mainly with blackmail material and notes about the latest finding regarding disease spreading ‘animalcules’. His desk is fashioned from a single monolith of obsidian. Atop it lies a silver pen, an inkwell and a neatly ordered stack of paper. The first drinkable thing within reach, happens to be brandy. Michael pours it into a crystal glass, then reaches for the buttons of his tailcoat. He shrugs the garment off and drapes it across the leatherback chair.

The views from this room are of the wooded side of St James Park. Above, the moon glows orange. It puts Michael in mind of the eye of the great reptile he saw chained years ago in the pleasure gardens of his Father’s estate near Siena. The creature had been the most exotic and formidable of an extensive menagerie. The sight of the magnificent beast reduced to a shackled toy had, like so much his Father had done, left Michael breathless with rage.

Michael drains his glass, then, glaring at the orange disk in the sky, corralles his thoughts and once more considers his position.

So… Lady Cordelia and her so called ‘Coven’ seek to challenge him…

If only he could think!

All of the day’s repressed exhaustion gathers in two needle like points at Michael’s temples.

He should be forming a battle plan for the meeting tonight.

He should be steeling himself for ceremony and sex sodden air and butchery.

But all he can think of is you.

Michael loathes you.

There is nothing about you that appeals to him.

Nothing.

Not the rosebud mouth that he imagines rounding into a delectable ‘O’ as he leads you down a winding garden path of pleasure.

Not the strangely magnetic depths of your eyes, which seem, so often, to be smiling at some private joke. O yes, Michael can tell: yours is a wit that buffers against slings and arrows. It is a wit so quietly potent, that it seems to armor even against the outrageous debasement of being a woman in this age. You have no worldly power, yet, you look at Michael in a way that makes him feel peeled. It is as though your gaze is made to perforate time and see the boy in him.

Nor does Michael like the sound of your voice, which is too low, too throaty, too sensual by half. It is auditory honey. It makes poetry out of everyday, ordinary words. And this is unacceptable.

He dislikes your beautiful brain, which ponders the stars and makes him and his worldly concerns feel paltry.

All in all, Michael dislikes you immensely.

He has from the beginning.

The first time he had the misfortune making your acquaintance was at Countess Vanderbilt’s musicale a fortnight ago- and you have seemed to darken his path ever since.

“This is my dearest niece, Y/n,” the old Countess had said, presenting you as though you were exactly as frivolous and meaningless as any other young debutante at the function.

It was the strangest sensation, seeing you for the first time.

Michael was actually moved to nausea.

His veins and lungs seemed to fill with a sudden, fitful dread.

Michael is bigger than you. He could unstring your bones with one fatal blow if he wants to. And yet, you left him in a state of… disorder. It was like meeting an angel of old- one of terrible ones, with fire and vengeance beating in their wings- as though he knew that beneath the fragile wrapping of skin, you were made of something stronger, and that you might burn a being like him if he ever dared to touch you.

He nearly melted when those unfathomable eyes had fixed their focus upon him. Those intelligent eyes, whose steady gaze had seemed to hint at a constant refreshment of outlook.

He had had to step on you. What else was there to do?

No doubt Cordelia had primed you for a meeting with his ‘demonic majesty’, Michael thought. He wonders if your skin crawled at the sight of him tonight. Probably.

What does he care?

You are exactly the type of chit Michael knows not to want: a gently bred virgin with her nose in books. Michael prefers the opposite: he likes his women older and amoral, like Countess De Coudre with her three dead husbands and stable of stable-boy swains, or the orb-titted Lady Caroline Woodville who once challenged a prostitute to win the title ‘Messalina of the North…South, West and East.’

Michael needs you like the pope needs a French letter. Or, indeed, like Michael needs the pope.

So why are you the fire that consumes his thoughts?

There is a knock at the door. Michael straightens.

“Come in!” he verily barks.

His gaze softens when he sees it is his Aunt, Lady Meade.

“They are gathering in the cellar, Michael,” she informs him. “The meeting is set to begin in a few minutes.”

“Yes. Yes, I can hear them,” replies Michael huffily. It amazes him that the sounds of his followers and their disgusting revels manage to molest him even on this floor.

“Pardon my agitation, Lady Meade.”

Meade smiles her signature gruff, knowing smile. “Miss Y/n was looking rather beautiful tonight,” she observes.

“Who?”

Lady Meade lets out a snort. “I have EYES in my head, Michael.”

“I swear, I don’t know what you could be referring to Lady Meade…”

“You could always try being, I don’t know, KIND to her…”

Michael feels himself blanch.

“KIND? To one of Lady Cordelia’s vestal virgins? I’d rather simmer in Hell’s hottest circle…”

“You have, My Darling,” says Michael’s beloved Aunt with a trace of sadness. “Speaking of which, we really should be getting this blasted Bacchanal under way.”

Lady Meade raises her hands to reveal a cape, of deepest burgundy, which she proceeds to sling lovingly over Michael’s shoulders. He allows his Aunt to fuss over him, to smoothe the golden tumble of his hair, and fasten the cape to his shoulders with medusa clasps.

If nothing else, Michael DRESSES the part of devil.

He takes a deep breath and proceeds to the doorway, gallantly opening the door for Lady Meade.

“After you, Aunt. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

Little does Michael know of the sordid things he will yet do this night.


	2. Chapter 2

“O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams  
That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.”  
― John Milton, Paradise Lost

……………………..

Rain makes the streets of London shimmer like onyx in the lamplit night as you and Coco drive through in her family’s coach.

The past few minutes of being jostled in the speeding, satin tomb have taught you four things:

  1. Coco actually PACKED and PLANNED in advance of this little escapade (the cheeky creature!).
  2. Coco shares a dressmaker with one of the most renowned and scandalously clad courtesans in the city.
  3. Changing clothes in the back of a coach, in the pitch of night, with the walls wobbling all around you is not an enterprise that you wish to repeat in the foreseeable future.



And 4. Your cousin is entirely too delighted to be going where you are going.

“Of course, Madame Bathilde charged me TRIPLE what she would have charged Harriette Wilson for these,” says Coco, lovingly fingering the eyelet work of her low-cut bodice. “But look Y/n, either Harriette shares my precise dimensions, or Madame Bathilde weaves her thread with witchcraft! And look at you! You are so fetching in that red. And the embroidery does wonders for your bosom!”

“Witchcraft or not,” you grumble, looking down at yourself, “your dressmaker obviously isn’t charging you by the yarn: we are practically in negligees!”

“Aren’t we resplendent? Don’t we look like Satan’s own concubines?”

“Coco, our nipples are liable to slip out!” you say, attempting to pull up the crimson and gold brocade of the garment whose structure appears to be based on the principle that breasts should not so much be offered up, as thrust at one’s admirers like slabs of poultry at the butchery stall.

“I KNOW!” exclaims Coco brightly, “that is why I took the liberty of applying rouge to mine.”

Your head spins.

Naught but two hours ago you were accused by the infernal Lord Langdon of being ‘missish’. Now, here you and Coco are, flirting with the eternal ruin of your family names by impersonating a pair of ‘ladies of a cheerful disposition’ at one of the notorious revels held by the Brimstone Society.

You look down at the white porcelain ‘volto’ mask in your lap. The countenance stares back like a painted void. Tonight, you will don this mask, and cover your head with the hood of a long black mantle. Coco will be attired in much the same way, only her ‘gown’ is silver, and her mantle, the red of poppy’s petals.

You are attired in this way because it is how the prostitutes and courtesans that the Brimstone Society wryly call ‘nuns’ appear at revels. You find the idea of it all to be supremely silly; a debauched orgy with pretentions of ritual…

Then, you put the cloak and mask on.

And it is a revelation.

In ancient Greece, followers of the cult of Dionysus held bacchanalia during which the laws guiding humanity were blissfully cancelled. The roles that were played so staunchly in everyday life were replaced by freedom, gaiety and anonymity. Masks were the tools that allowed Dionysian followers to slip from the oppression of their societally prescribed identities into something primal and animal and divine.

And yes, you can admit, you never understood- never truly understood- before now, what power is held in the wearing of a mask.

Because you feel, at once, yourself, and not. You are a multiplicity: the shy, bookish Astronomer’s daughter is alive inside of a mysterious courtesan who makes the blood of her admirers turn to honey in their veins. You feel, honestly, a little like the female version of Lord Langdon, whose poisoned glamour makes him the thrill of any room he enters. 

At the same time, you worry about how long this ruse can go on for.

What if you and Coco are bad at pretending to be courtesans?

What if one of the masked Lords at the gathering wishes to do more than merely ogle at your cleavage?

Excitement begins to die.

By the time you reach the grounds of 11 Wimpole Street, The Duke of Langdon’s enormous gray and white, neoclassical monstrosity of a London mansion, the lure of adventure has been shuttered and replaced by dread.

A poe faced man whom you recognize to be Langdon’s valet greets you on the gravel path that is lined for the occasion with scores of glowing torches.

As you are led through the more secluded area of the garden, you have an urge to take Coco aside and tell her to go home. Other similarly dressed women begin to appear around you and together you form a masked procession that is surely (surely!) more terrifying than arousing.

It is not lost on you that Coco, dear, sweet, paragon of an Earl’s daughter, Coco, has more to lose here than you.

WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, allowing her come here? It makes you sizzle with shame to recognize that it must surely have been Lord Langdon’s comments to you at the ball that have lit this foolish fire of impulse.

The scents of magnolia and hyacinth mingle with that of burnt sugar in the air. Fireflies blink in and out of existence amid boxwoods carved to suggest satyrs and other horned sentinels (how obvious of the Duke of Langdon…)

It occurs to you that you might, neither of you, leave these grounds the same (or at all!) after this night. You have a vision of running away, of taking Coco by the hand, lifting up your skirts, and careening down the Highstreet swift as greyhounds.

But what would that look like?

You reach the back of the house, which has an appealingly rusticated courtyard at its foot. The rock wall rises abruptly from a scrambling mass of briar, into which an entrance is fitted that looks like something from a different era altogether. It is a heavy oak door forged in Romanesque style, with sinewy figures of wolves and boars curling around its border.

The Valet pushes open the door.

Inside, there is darkness, and enormity and chanting echoing from below. You can hear Latin, but you cannot make out the words. You can smell frankincense, and the smell stirs the depths of your soul with something ancient but familiar. Your collective footsteps echo down a cavernous hallway until you reach narrow, spiralling stairs that descend into a kind of dungeon. In that instant, Langdon’s valet becomes Charon, guiding you and dozens of others into the underworld. You reach for Coco’s hand and squeeze surreptitiously. You can feel fear in her sweaty pulse.

Then, down you go.

The staircase is lined with gutted torches and seems to go on and on into the very bedrock of the earth. With every step, the chanting becomes louder and clearer.

‘Chao ab Ordo’, they are saying, ‘Chaos from Order.’

Then abruptly, it stops.

You reach an antechamber, and the light that breaks your vision feels primordial, as though you have tunneled from one plane of world to another. The stone walls are bathed with fire and amber. In your periphery, you note an Elizabethan tapestry. It depicts an innocent paradise of flowers being invaded by a coiling serpent.   

You startle as the silence is pierced by an explosion of applause in the adjoining room. A woman’s voice (a woman’s FAMILIAR voice) is heard.

The box of intelligence in your mind marked ‘Brimstone Society Facts’ is quickly amended from ‘does not tolerate presence of females except to supply carnal diversions’, to ‘contains at least one female member’. When you are led into the main chamber and greeted by the masked but unmistakable sight the lady addressing a room of followers from the height of a raised podium, the box is further amended to ‘Miriam Meade: member of The Brimstone Society.’

It stands to reason that the Duke of Langdon’s own aunt, with whom he has resided abroad for nearly a decade, might be involved in the secret organization, but it still comes as something of a shock. Meade’s stout figure is swathed in ceremonial black. You realize now how different she is from the generalized blur of older spinsters you had lumped her with. You are ashamed, now, that she never interested you beyond being Langdon’s relation. Standing there, demanding the attention of every masked craven in the hall, Meade resembles an avatar of death from the panel of an Egyptian wall.

The stony, torchlit expanse is alive with people, all wearing masks. Some, you blanch to realize, are in various stages of dishabille. One man is wearing pantaloons only.

Trefoil arches containing doors line the walls. The ceiling corners are festooned with carvings of devils. (You are sensing a decorative theme.) There is a long banquet table sprouting amidst the crowd, spread with the kind of feast that Pieter Claesz would have ached to paint. Snifters and jeweled goblets abound.

This, you recognize immediately, is decadence on the Roman scale. This is the kind of soiree that Nero might have thrown, where one might witness a man get roasted alive inside the belly of a boar-shaped brazier.

Yet the way Miriam Meade is standing, with her demonic cloak, and soldier’s posture, leads you to believe that what is being enacted here tonight is more than pleasure of the flesh. To be in this room tonight is to participate in a myth.

“Lords and Degenerates,” calls Meade, in a tone strikingly different from that which you have heard her adopt to trade gossip with Lady Foxworthy. “You are gathered here tonight to drink of the abyss, to rejoice in truth, and to pay homage to your King.”

Your heart gallops in your ears at the moment you realize who, precisely, this ‘King’ is.

“Welcome him!” commands Meade. “KNEEL BEFORE YOUR KING!”

You swallow down bile and disbelief as every member of the assembly- including you, by sheer survivalist impulse- prostrates before the podium.

You cast your eyes upward to catch the sight of Dionysus himself materialize from one from one of the trefoil doors.  

Michael Langdon glows like that Aztec gold called ‘tears of the sun’. He is blindingly, blisteringly beautiful in a cape of burgundy velvet, with shoulder clasps shaped like Perseus’s great foe, the snake headed gorgon for whom you have always felt a strange sympathy.

His countenance is that of a pagan god deigning to consort with his priests. Yet Langdon also looks younger than you have ever seen him, boyish even. And in his boyishness, there is twist of martyrdom.   

Wearing your volto mask is quickly becoming a torment. It pinches against the sides of your face, and would, you decide, be death to anyone that suffered from claustrophobia. But you are thankful for it, because it allows you to stare at the subject of your fascination with unreserved, uninterrupted, drunken shamelessness.

You could look at Michael Langdon forever.

But only if he is far away and up high. While you lie quiet beneath the safety of a porcelain face. 

Lord Langdon scans the room- and for a moment- YOU SWEAR…

Your heart beats like a drum. If you were a ninny, you would think that he has discovered you…

You breathe a hot sigh of relief into your mask when he begins to address the crowd. You are safe, you think.

“Good evening, followers,” says Langdon haughty as a god king as he gazes out at the sea of masked faces, capes and undergarments. “Chao ab Ordo,” he says.

“CHAO AB ORDO!” answer the crowd with greater enthusiasm.

You feel a sickening wave of unanimous awe directed at Langdon. Near you and Coco, a man is trembling at the sight of the unholy leader. He is wearing the Venetian mask that you recognize as the ‘Medico della peste’, or ‘Plague Doctor’, with round disks for eyes, and a protruding beak.

It is then when it occurs to you that Langdon is the only person in the room not wearing a mask, the Valet having left.

You have no doubt that the people here all know one another. The masks, you presume, are pure ceremony. Only Langdon, coated as he is in adamantine power, may face the congregation wearing his own skin.

“Tonight, we bathe in the blood of angels, and gorge upon the spoils of our dominion,” he tells his followers. “Rise.”

The followers, the ‘nuns’, you and Coco rise, docile as marionettes.

Then, in a moment that will remain engraved in the softening folds of your memory until the day you die, Langdon produces a knife and cuts into his own hand until blood dribbles onto the podium.

Your blood quickens in response to the sight of his.

“Go forth, followers of Brimstone!” cries Langdon. “REVEL!”

At his command, the room descends into chaos. Before their Leader has even finished painting the stage with his blood, a kind of opium, alcohol and sex fueled pandemonium takes hold.

The room is moving.

Clothing is being shrugged off.

Drink, food, skin, sex, everywhere there is excess, everything in excess. The Ancient Greeks would have hated this. Or loved it. You are not precisely sure.

You turn to look at Coco and are met, instead, with the pale, recumbent form of what you imagine must be a judge or a speaker of Parliament in the embrace of a nun.

So, you think, this is where ‘men of quality’ come to burrow like pigs in their freedom. This is where the Lords who would call Coco ‘ruined’ by her one night with Lord Sotherton come to claim their due pleasures. It is not the acts themselves, but the hypocrisy that makes you ill.  

Still, you would rather not look at the acts either…

It becomes a kind of ocular version of battledore and shuttlecock: the second you see a pulse of moving flesh, you look away, only to see more flesh, only to look away again… In time, you have no recourse but to stare at the ceiling and hope you do not trip. There is a fresco up there depicting the fall of Lucifer. Lucifer looks a little familiar…

The room is growing warmer with every breath. Your lungs chest empty. Your bodice, barely there as it is, feels suddenly cramped. You are about to faint-

But then you hear his voice.

You look down the room and there he is in your direct line of vision.

Lord Langdon is being fussed over by Ms. Meade. And he does not appear to mind it either. He allows her to wrap his cut hand with gauze, in full view of everyone, perhaps knowing that they are too up to their foreheads in drinking and wenching to notice the tender care she is applying.

You reflect upon the strange effect that seeing Michael Langdon bleed has had on you. When he cut himself, it was as if your chest had been embedded with a shard of something razor sharp, and that shard was churning and churning and churning against your heart.

Once he is bandaged, Langdon leaves his Aunt and begins to walk around the room.

You follow him, first with your eyes, then with your feet.

For all his blood letting and decadent looks, Langdon appears to float above all that is unfolding around him. He is both the driving force of this carnal oblivion and as aloof as an obelisk in its wake. Women and men alike are trying to meet his eye, attempting to intrigue him, baiting him with tits and sighs and performative howls. They are doing it all for him.

All for Langdon.

Bending over backwards, attempting to out-debauch one another.

They imagine that it might make them worthy of his acknowledgement. And though they make themselves fools in the effort- Langdon will never care for anyone, that much, at least, is written in the stars- you can hardly fault any of the players in this lascivious masque for being incapable of resisting the urge to throw themselves at the Duke’s feet…

The milky scores of courtesans hold as little flame to his beauty, as a candle might against a chaos of stars.

But it is not only his beauty, you decide, it is the power that Langdon exudes.

It is the way his lips snarl at the succulence. It is the way his tongue is seen to glide malevolently over upper teeth. In any other man it would be lewd and predatory; it would turn your stomach… in any other man.

And at the same time, there is something sad about him. That he is presiding over all of this, that his hand is awash with blood, and his vision filled with people pillaging one another, and it has so little impact on him… is, yes, sad.

You wonder what Langdon has seen in his comparatively brief lifetime, that has made him, like a coroner in the face of death, so inured to vice?

Just as you are losing yourself in speculation, you feel the pull of Coco’s hand on yours. Something, you can tell immediately, is terribly wrong. You turn around to see your cousin shaking in her Venetian finery. “What is wrong, dear Love?” you whisper. “Tell me.”

Coco draws in close. You can hear her ragged breathing. “Y/n, I chanced to look round that column there, and I s-saw… I was certain… Though he wore a mask… M-my Father… with one of the women…”

Your stomach hollows. The Earl, a member of the Brimstone Society? YOUR OWN UNCLE? You have always regarded the bald, be-paunched, marble mouthed Earl of Vanderbilt to be the very definition of ‘stodgy’.

“Are you sure it was him, Sweeting?” you ask.

“I am certain,” whispers Coco. “All Vanderbilts have the signature crescent shaped birthmark on their derriere. Mine is no different.” She pauses. “I think I am going to be sick… I’m going to cast my crumpets right into this mask, Y/n…”

“No, no please, Coco. If not for the sake of your honour, then for the sake of your life!”

The man in the Plague Doctor Mask begins to chant in Latin at the centre of the room.

This proves too much for Coco. The frightened girl gasps and runs away like a spooked mare.

Forgetting all affectations of ‘courtesan-ness’, you run after her.

You are sure that Coco has slipped into one of the doors lining the anterior of the main room, but your mask obstructs the scope of your vision. You open one of the heavy, cherrywood doors, muttering a silent prayer that you have gotten the room right.

As soon as the door closes behind you, you realize that, like a would-be prince in a fairy-tale, you have chosen wrong. With a shuddering heart beat, you look around.

You’ve lost Coco.

How in hell did you manage to let her slip away?

But it gets worse.

When you turn the knob, you realize that the door you from which you entered has locked.

Be calm, you tell yourself. Everything will be all right. You just need to find a good Samaritan at this orgy, and they will kindly open the door…

You whirl back around, ready to search for just such a Samaritan, and are met with a paralyzing sight.

When you were a child, there was a particular book in the library of your Papa’s late Uncle George, that you used to take out and look at when no one else was about. It was full of erotic engravings by the caricaturist Thomas Rowlandson. The things you saw therein had made you gasp with amazement. There was one particular picture, which is still emblazoned in your memory, of a man playing the violin into a woman’s bare ass as she stood bonnily over him. It had all seemed so naughty and harmless then. Just cartoons, you thought, enjoying themselves.

But now, you find yourself confronted with something like the fleshly version of those engravings.

You scan the dimly lit room and are inundated with all manner of stages, varieties and formations of sexual congress. You stagger backward, speechless and overloaded.

You never knew before, that copulation had a SMELL.

You never imagined what it would sound like for intimate skin to SLAP that way…

The centrepiece of the sin infested room is moving upon a large, pink setee.

A nude woman is wearing a studded black ‘Columbina’ mask. Beneath the porcelain and gem stones, the bottom half of her face is visible. A man is fucking her with all the gusto of a piston, and she reclines back, against the chest and arms of a second man.

You blink.

This lady is SANDWICHED between two gentlemen.

She is allowing them BOTH to pay their… attentions.

Nay. She is not simply ‘allowing’, she is revelling.

Then, swifter than you can blink, the partners change positions. Now the woman’s lush, marbled backside is facing you. The first man is entering her from behind. He ruts frantically, without rhythm or know how, as if the thrusts of his hips could drive from him all the shames and terrors that are heir to human life. The man at her front is gentler, almost tender. He places slow kisses onto the creamy expanse of her bosom. The columbina woman’s head is thrown back, and, through the slits of her mask, her eyes are half closed. You do not need to see the entirely of her face to recognize the pained delirium of her pleasure.

Neither man is handsome.

Nor is the woman, to your surprise, young or sprightly. Without the benefit of stays, her breasts sag and quiver deflatedly against the front man’s chest. There are striations of gray in her unbound hair that shine like quicksilver in the meagre light. You would guess her to be in her middle forties. She has a double chin and hair above her lip. But she is possessed by an ecstasy that makes her burn like the sun. In this moment, she is powerfully beautiful, breathtaking even.

You cannot help but watch.

The front man begins to suckle the woman’s breasts.

You feel disgust. You think. Why ever would a grown man be doing THAT?

And yet, there is a tingling… As though you were, somehow, the sensory surrogate of that bosom...

Without warning, you imagine Michael Langdon doing this to your breasts. You imagine that unendurably plush mouth circling around your nipple, the mouth that scorches you with insults, opening against your flesh, his tongue flicking, his eyes closed in bliss…

Why is that so easy to imagine?

STOP THINKING ABOUT LANGDON, you tell yourself.

The woman on the setee sighs. It is all mortifying.

And a little exciting.

What makes it worse than being slow roasted in the most intimate flames of hell, is knowing that HE is nearby as you witness this… For all you know, Langdon could be just outside that door…

It feels so wicked.

You should be consigned to dwell in the warm, anonymous darkness of your Volto mask forever, after seeing this, after being here.

With all of the certainty of a clap of thunder, the woman on the setee spends, then slackens against the front man as the back man follows her into groaning bliss.

You startle as the spell is broken, resolved, once again to find Coco.

The door opens.

You freeze as you are met with the menacing form of Michael Langdon.

You remind yourself, as panic seizes you, that you are wearing a mask, he could never think-

“Good evening, Ms. Y/n,” he whispers icily. “Were you merely enjoying the view, or did you plan on joining in?”

……………………………………………..

Minutes later, out of breath from the many staircases the Duke of Langdon has prodded and bullied you up, you find yourself ensconced in the book lined, candle lit realm that is his private study.

Having slammed the door, Langdon is pacing. In the glow of candlelight, the way he moves is more panther than human.

There is a big black desk occupying the space between where you stand and he does, and leather chairs on either side. One of them is covered by your cloak and mask, which Langdon yanked off of you the moment you crossed the threshold of this room.

“Where is Coco?” you ask, with rising alarm.

“She’s fine.”

“Is she hurt?” you demand, holding your ground. “Is my cousin hurt, Lord Langdon?”

“Calm yourself,” he hisses. “Your precious Ms. Vanderbilt is unscathed. She is currently enduring nothing more trying than a glass of brandy with my Aunt Meade.

“WILL she be hurt?”

“Don’t be a chucklehead, Ms. Y/n,” the Duke says. “Your fellow interloper is safe and sound. I dare say that the young lady has suffered enough for one evening, having been confronted with the pale, gelatinous sight of her father fornicating.”

You close your eyes against the image.

“You will be reunited in due course. Now,” Langdon makes a sweeping gesture to the chair across the table opposite him, “If you would please.” It is not so much an offer as a command.

You drop into the chair, conscious of the danger of your nothing of a gown riding up and giving the Duke an eyeful of the red buckled garters holding up your stockings. 

Langdon’s voice is chiding and velvety as he says, “Please enlighten me, Ms. Y/n, as to why you and Ms. Vanderbilt have seen fit to enter my house dressed like a pair of Paphians?”

Your mind casts a wide net, hoping to draw in the quickest, most convincing lie. But you are at a loss. You shift uncomfortably in the chair, enduring the turquoise, unwavering regard of the Devil Duke.

“Well?”

You swallow. “I beg your pardon, M-my Lord. Y-you see, it was… It was all a dreadful misunderstanding. We were given to believe that Lady C-Carlyle” (you don’t know where THAT name came from), “was hosting a game of Whist, for the ladies…”

“Whist?” snips Langdon. “At this hour?”

“It’s j-jolly good fun Sir. Um. We thought it would be a lark.”

“I see,” says Langdon, his eyes lighting with something evil. “You are here on a ‘lark’.”

You nod like an idiot.

“And is this the reason why you are dressed as a trollop?”

You bristle at that. How dare he? HE, the man who has turned his own cellar into the great square of Venus!

“It was a mistake coming here, My Lord,” you concede, trying to look bashful. “Coco and I have paid for our mistake dearly- we shall never again galivant in search of card games in the wee hours. Lesson learned!” You get up from your seat.

“Sit,” commands Langdon.

You do.

He allows the falsities you have uttered to marinate in the awkward, candle lit silence for a moment before speaking. “Lie again, Ms. Y/n,” he says, his face blank and cold and beautifully terrifying, “and there will be unpleasant consequences for both you and your friend.”

You rebel against your own mounting fear like a tiny carrack amid a storm of waves.

“Let us go, Sir, and we will not trouble you again.”

Langdon’s eyebrows raise. “Won’t you?”

Your eyes fall heedlessly to the hand that has been cut and bandaged. Michael catches you looking, and bridles. You wonder if you could be imagining it, or is does he look… embarrassed?

“We won’t tell a soul, what, we erm, saw at your gathering tonight,” you promise.

Lord Langdon’s face darkens with menace. “You think that you are in a position to make charitable ‘promises’ to me, you appalling Girl?”

“I w-was only-”

“I wonder,” interrupts Langdon, bringing his beringed hand to rest upon his chin in a mockery of thoughtful repose, “Is it because I am so beautiful that people who do not know me mistake me for an idiot?”

So, the Duke HAS looked in a mirror you think. You are sure that there might exist a time and a circumstance in which you might have laughed at the (warranted) vanity of such an utterance. But it is not now.

Instead, you are impressed with yourself for not dematerializing into the yellow haze of his study when Langdon drags his eyes over your scantily clad person and says, “I am sure that YOU never have that problem, plain as you are, and shackled to your books and your maidenhead.”

“Perhaps you are not as clever as you believe, Lord Langdon,” you say, irritated (and wounded). “You wouldn’t be the first of your cohort to grossly overestimate yourself.”

“It is YOU you overestimate yourself, you conspiring little imp! The entire WORLD is constituted of things you do not know!”

“I knew to come HERE, didn’t I?” you say, baiting the dragon as though he were manacled. “And I knew what sorts of fiendish activities were conducted here by the Brimstone Society, the unspeakable acts you instigate, the flagrant disregard for humanity and decency!”

Langdon grins. “Shocked you, has it?

“The only thing ‘shocking’, Sir,” you say with unsheathed scorn, “is how predictable and generic everything was. I really thought you would sin with greater originality, My Lord.”

That wipes his grin right off. 

You have never before been alone in a room with a man who was not your Papa. You never imagined that it could get this childish…

“I’ll show you sin, Ms. Y/n,” says Langdon in a low voice that succeeds in making you shiver. “I haven’t even begun yet. Those revels you watched from behind your pretty mask were nothing. You’ve seen nothing. That was merely the amuse bouche.”

“In that case, Sir, I’ll skip the entree!”

“You would have BEEN the entrée had I not showed up to rescue you, Ms. Y/n!”

You balk. “RESCUE me?”

“I’ll admit,” says the Duke in a way that makes heat coil in the pit of your stomach, “I had not taken you for a voyeur...”

You have no answer to this but to blush madly and demand, “How did you know it was me?”

“I would know you anywhere,” says Langdon. And that makes your breath catch in your chest. It is far worse when the Duke leans over the table, and whispers, “Cover yourself in as many veils as Salome, Ms. Y/n, and I would know you by your walk. I would catch every note of your scent, as though the air were tattooed with your signature.”

You exhale.

Michael watches intently. “I know about you,” he says. “I know what you think. I know what you feel. I know how pathetic you are. I know how you live in hope that Lady Cordelia and her cabal won’t smell your gratitude when you occupy their rooms.”

This lances. You will your face into a cipher, as you have with many a taunting male, your whole life long.

 “I know that you lie in bed at night wondering if you could have persuaded your Father to go to the Mediterranean, instead of the Alps,” continues Langdon. “If you had fought a little harder, you wonder, would he have lived a little longer?”

“You don’t know anything,” you say. “You know where my Father died- as does everyone. The rest, you are merely guessing. And you are saying it out loud in an effort- god knows why- to wound me.”

“Is it guessing, Ms. Y/n, to say that you conspire with a secret consortium of like-minded females to ravage and punish those that you see as deserving?”

Your mouth drops open.

“Is it guessing to say that six months ago, Lady Cordelia enabled you to publish an anonymous pamphlet detailing the supposed horrors faced by female inmates residing in Newgate Prison?”

How could he…. How could he POSSIBLY?

The pamphlet wasn’t going to be traced back to you- Cordelia had SWORN. The night you had broken down in her arms after touring Newgate Prison with Coco and her Mother, after the wretchedness and squalor, after seeing the desiccated bodies and hearing the stories of their horror, you had shared your idea with Cordelia. She said that publishing the pamphlet would help get word out in the public. She was hoping that a reform bill could be passed in Parliament before Christmas. You had leapt at the chance to help.

“I must admit,” says Langdon, “Your ideas regarding prison reform are not hopeless. And,” he adds patronizingly, “your penmanship is exquisite.”

You don’t understand.

Damn it.

You don’t understand…

Until.

It must be the second draft of your pamphlet that Langdon has in his possession.

It is the only one that bears your signature, and coincidentally, the only one that you neglected to burn-because it had been… misplaced before you could do so…

You had naively assumed that Lucy, Coco’s ladies’ maid, had mistaken it for an errant scrap of paper and thrown it away.

Michael looks at you the way a predator does as it is rounding toward a runt. Blood is collapsing in great waves through your body, in your chest, in your ears, in the tips of your fingers. Everything is fear. Everything is primed for disaster.

“H-how did you?”

Langdon’s beautiful mouth curves. “Every aristocratic household in England is a veritable termite’s nest of my little minions, Ms. Y/n. Your Uncle’s is no different.” Seeing you squirm appears to make Langdon’s pleasure surge. “Your paranoia is founded, Miss. Y/n. Your traitor would be but one rodent in a wilderness of treachery.”

You stare at him, unable to fathom that anyone could exist that is this callous, and this proud of it.

“Publish my identity, My Lord,” you say, defiantly. “A minor scandal touching the life of a confirmed spinster: that is all it will be. It will cost me nothing but my name, which is already not a good one, as you are so fond of reminding me.”

Langdon scoffs. “Your reputation may be but a crumb, Ms. Y/n, but what of your friend Coco’s? What of Duchess Goode’s, and Ms. Madison Montgomery’s, and Ms. Queenie’s? What of that wealthy textile merchant who lives, for some reason, installed in the Duchess’s estates? What of your Aunt’s family? What of the people who so gallantly took you in, who suffer your lamentable presence in their home? Who cloth you and feed you and keep you from the indignities of the poor house? And what of your Father’s memory? An eccentric, he was known to be, but still a GENTLEMAN. How the ton would joy to know that his only daughter, that mousy little thing, grew up to become one of the most prolific whores in Christendom.”

“Whore, Sir?” you verily spit. “What can you mean, when I am, as you so like to remind me ‘shackled to my maidenhead’?”

Langdon smiles his terrible, dazzling smile. “O my dear, are you not aware? The facts in such an instance would hardly be relevant. The only pertinent one is that you and Ms. Vanderbilt were present here, in my home, on this night, OF ALL NIGHTS. Every Peer worth his salt is apprised of what goes on in meetings of the Brimstone Society. If anyone had so much as a whiff that you or Ms. Vanderbilt were present at the Bacchanal, you would not be looked upon by anyone in your so called ‘polite society’ ever again.”

You gape at the Duke, stunned into submission by the truth of his words. There was a girl once, you remember, a cousin of Coco’s about a decade older than you, who had allowed one Lord Chatsworth to take liberties with her behind the colonnade of a balcony one night at a ball. The couple was alighted upon by a gaggle of matrons, and scandal spread like quickfire through the ton. The girl was, in a word, ruined. The blaggard refused to marry her. Her brother challenged him to pistols at dawn, the consequence of which is that he still walks with a limp. For the heinous crime of allowing Lord Chatsworth to feel her breasts over her bodice, the girl was barred from ever being received by her friends again. Children’s ears were covered at the mere mention of her name. Such is the circus of hypocrisy you live in. That girl was older now and living with an enfeebled grand aunt somewhere in the Cotswolds. You imagine this fate for Coco. And Madison. And Queenie.

Then, you imagine with what ravening delight the scores of bigots and scoundrels would take in seeing Lady Cordelia Goode fall from her pedestal of worldly and political influence. The social programs and reforms that she is instrumental in pushing into being would be buried under the muck of a tarnished reputation.

You think of Mr. Gallant, the clever man who rose from his rank as a tanner’s son, to become a tycoon; whose heart was broken with the loss of John Henry. 

You think of all that the Coven does and all that it stands for; the women who suffer at the hands of violent husbands for fear of losing their children; the scullery maids who toil under the roofs of lecherous Lords; the women at Newgate, who live and die and give birth in the bitter cold and rancid air; the young girls who arrive by night at Cordelia’s door fresh from bawdy houses, desperate for some means of alternate employment. The Coven helps them all. The Coven have granted you a clarity of purpose.

It will not stand, to have it all crumble, not when the prospects of building a better world hang in the balance.

"What do you want?” you ask with calm determination.

You are surprised to hear the Duke’s breathing increase at your question.

As if to evade your notice of this, Langdon raises his elegant body from his chair, and begins to circle the room.

“I am well aware of what your so called ‘Coven’ thinks of me,” Langdon informs you. You are shocked to hear ‘Coven’ leaving his lips and there is glint of satisfaction in his eyes when he clocks your response.

Langdon breaks your gaze to go to the cabinet to retrieve a snifter of brandy. He pours himself a glass. Offers you none, then goes on, swirling the amber liquid in his palm. “Ms. Y/n, I can only imagine what that delegation of Sapphos, debutantes and spinster cousins has told you. But, villain though I may be, I am not an unreasonable man. Like all earthly creatures, I have my price.”

Langdon takes a sip from his glass and seems to drink you in with every swallow of brandy.

“Name it,” you say, hoping he does not notice the way your hands are trembling in your lap. “I will not be sorry to pay.”

“O, but you will,” says Langdon with a harsh laugh. He considers you for a moment, looking every inch the villain he professes to be. The gold of his hair gorges itself on candle light. His eyes are clear as a rock pool, and as razor sharp as the mussels that cling to its bottom.

“What do you want, Sir?” You ask again, and your own voice seems far away now, as though it were not even a product of your body.

“In return for my generous silence,” says Langdon after a gloating moment, “you will spend five nights, unchaperoned, with me.”

You stare at the Duke, drenched in nausea.

This cannot be real.

“I b-beg your pardon, Sir?”

“You must have wax in your ears, Ms. Y/n. I spoke quite clearly.”

“I- I am afraid I do not understand what you are proposing, Sir…” The room is spinning now, a blur of mahogany and gold.

“For five nights, which will take place on dates of my choosing, you will surrender yourself to me. I will have complete license to do as I desire with you. If you refuse me anything, I retain the power to banish you from my sight summarily and expose whatever I wish of your conduct.”

It occurs to you that the Langdon you have been faced with up until now has been, for all of his bullying, a civilized mask. The real monster has you in his jaws now. Your pain is nourishment to him. Your debasement, his wine.

Could it be that he is mad? Is that it, that the Duke is mad, but so handsome that nobody has ever actually noticed?

“Y-you are blackmailing me t-to give myself to you a-as your…” Finishing that sentence proves an impossibility.

“For five measly nights, Ms. Y/n, after which… you will likely beg me for more.”

“You are a monster.” The threat of tears prickles your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. “Please, My Lord, there must be something else- anything other than… Please do not do this.”

You are well aware, even as you attempt to beseech something inside of him, that the thing you are beseeching may well be nothing more than an enormous absence- namely that of a soul.

“Please, my Lord,” you whisper. “What good can be gleaned from it?”

Crystalline eyes blink. “What GOOD?”

You nod.

Langdon’s laughter descends upon you like the biting, glitter of snow. “My dear Ms. Y/n, the good will be the pleasure I take in watching you fall.”

You gape at him, struggling to understand. “B-but why?”

Langdon regards you as though he is about to say one thing. Then you watch as, almost imperceptibly, his mind changes and he says another. “I enjoy seeing things get destroyed.” 

You shut your eyes. You feel dizzy as the words leave your mouth. “Y-you want me to,” you swallow, “sleep with you?

“‘Sleep’ would be misleading.”

Were you on your feet, instead of sitting down, pinned like a butterfly under glass by the Duke’s blue-green stare, now is the moment when you might faint.

“Forgive me, Sir, I… I struggle to… I cannot understand how you can be saying this, why you would want…”

Langdon rolls his eyes. Actually rolls his eyes. “Understand this, Ms. Y/n,” he bites out. “From this moment forward, what YOU understand is entirely irrelevant.”

“Sir,” you say more calmly than you can believe, “You have, on a number of occasions, spoken to me, and comported yourself in a way that has rendered it abundantly clear that you find me uniquely loathsome.”

Langdon blinks. “Relevance?”

Rage clenches your stomach. But so, to your horror, does lust. “You HATE me, Sir!” you verily shout, as if you remind Langdon, and yourself, of the fact.

“How correct you are,” clips the Duke.

“Why?” you demand. “Why do you hate me?”

“I should have thought that to hate a person whom one finds to be repugnant, irritating, disagreeable and bothersomely sanctimonious were perfectly logical.”

The one remaining rational fragment of your mind is tangling itself up in the complexity of this.

You look down, unable to meet his eyes. “Yet you d-desire me?”

You sense, but only for a moment, that beneath his carapace of calm, Langdon sparks at this. He covers it up with a languid shrug. 

“I have a suspicion that you might satisfy a temporary, and, it must be said, woefully unmerited, preference,” he says coldly.

WOEFULLY UNMERITED PREFERENCE?

You realize, then, with a bolt of knowledge, why people kill. Not all, but many enough, you believe, do it out of helplessness, and out of desperation. Perhaps the crime of murder is nothing more than an act of surrender.

You stare at Langdon, the deadly, beautiful man that would make a graveyard of your honour, and something violent inside of you is activated. Your heart and mind are pickled in primordial broth. You would like to hit him. You would like to bite him. You would like to immolate yourself just so that he too might be burned with you in the flame.

He wants to ruin you.

And he does not even see the need to supply you with a reason.

To the hierarchized world you inhabit, you are nothing. But to Langdon, you are less even than that. To Langdon, you are a negatively charged void. He expects that it will be easy to destroy you. An evening’s work, or five. The Devil’s victory over your soul is a forgone conclusion.

And perhaps, in this, as in everything, Langdon will prove victorious.

But perhaps not.

Later, you will lock yourself up in your room at the Vanderbilt’s and weep without quarter. For now, you resolve to be a tactician, like Hannibal with his armies at Trebia and Lake Trasimenea! You consider your position. You consider what granting Langdon ‘intimacies’ will mean. You turn beet red as unbidden Thomas Rowlandson-esque images flood you brain. You strain on, through the mortified fog and light upon an idea: in becoming Lord Langdon’s bedmate, you will be afforded access into his most private sphere.

You would be in his rooms.

You would be in his BED.

You could snatch up opportunities, as they arise, to gather intelligence on him for the Coven. Perhaps the Duke harbours some secrets of his own that might bring him down to heel with the rest of you mortals. In the act of surrendering to your own ruin, you might, with luck, find something that will lead to Langdon’s.

And all it will cost is your maidenhead, your self respect and your soul.

“You wish me to be your play thing, Lord Langdon?” you say quietly into your lap.

“I want ownership,” says Langdon in a voice of satin and smoke. “Ownership, Ms. Y/n, for five nights. In the intervals in between those nights- and these may be intervals of days, weeks, months or years- you shall be your own master and may act as you wish. But from the moment you enter my chambers, on the appointed nights, to the moment I see fit to dismiss you from them, you BELONG to me. Is that clear?” 

‘You belong to me’. You hear those words with your entire body. Your ears are merely the envoy.

Days. Weeks. Months. Years. How long can this ‘unmerited preference’ last?

Your head lifts. You steel yourself to meet an exquisite, impassive countenance. Instead, Langdon’s eyes are burning into yours. His expression is one of stunning, naked, desire.

For you?

O.

Even as you find yourself reeling in horror, your deepest self whispers to you, beckoning you into hellfire. The tragedy of the matter- or joke- is that you are deeply attracted to Langdon, and have been since the beginning. To deny it, or to attempt to kill it would be as futile and laughable as attempting to prevent an earthquake.

You hate this.

But you want this.

To be Langdon’s.

For five nights.

To be disgorged of your ignorance. To KNOW. To taste passion. To feel what his lips feel like. To be reborn in that carnal flame.

You refuse to give Langdon the satisfaction of knowing he has put you in chaos. “I assume, Sir,” you say evenly, “that intend to fully ‘ruin’ me?”

The Duke’s lips quirk. “No, Ms. Y/n, not ‘ruin’, you were ‘ruined’ at birth. To fuck you? Perhaps. If the mood strikes me.” He says this as though he is discussing taking a leisurely stroll through St James’s Park, ‘I might go take in the air, if the mood strikes me.’

Your mouth turns dry.

“I see, Sir.”

For a long time, silence reigns in the wood paneled, fire lit study.

Then a funny thing happens, you have a strange sense that Langdon is growing ever more agitated, ANXIOUS even, for your decision.

Like he’s NERVOUS.

Like he is afraid you will refuse his scandalous proposal.

There is a certain power in this knowledge.

How desperate must he be, when he cannot even pretend not to want the thing he hates?

“If I agree to your terms, My Lord,” you say, breaking the tension, and meeting his gaze with icy poise of your own. “What assurance will I have that you will hold true to them?”

Langdon frowns. “I would never lie about such a thing. You have my word as a Gentleman.”

You snort loudly. This shocks him. It shocks you too.

“My word is not good enough for you?” Langdon sneers.

“With all due respect, your word is BOLLOCKS, Sir.”

“Spare me your fishwife’s tongue, Ms. Y/n!”

You scoff. “The irony of YOU unbraiding me for swearing is richer than the Fanny the Cook’s apricot pudding!”

“Be that as it may, you bacon-brained little chit, I am master in this house, as everywhere else. Your persistent disobedience will be met with consequences.”

Why your quim pools at those words is a mystery that you cannot begin to interrogate right now…

“Consequences, Sir?”

“My negotiating with you at all is a courtesy,” says Langdon haughtily, and in that moment -ZOUNDS! -you can see the fissure in his armour. The uncertainty. He looks so much younger than his 30 years.

You raise yourself to stand, praying your knees do not wobble. The Duke is taller than you, and it is not without a sizzle of inward triumph that you notice he strains to make himself even taller that that.

With a mind toward borrowing the confidence of Cleopatra, the fearlessness of Boudica, the will of Joan of Arc and the gumption of Cordelia Goode, you walk toward your opponent.

“It does not feel like a courtesy, Sir,” you whisper, gazing up at the Duke’s unfairly glorious face.

You see his lips part.

“I have the most powerful men in England sewn into my pocket, Miss. Y/n,” breathes Langdon.

“But not the women.”

“I can make you dance to my tune just as easily as I can make Lord Riseborough vote how I want him to on the Workhouse Bill in the House of Lords next week.”

You wonder, vaguely, because such things are important after all, HOW the Duke will order Riseborough to vote. The socially conscious question is vaporized when Langdon takes a step closer to you. There is only a wisp of light and air between you now. Your breath falls naturally into rhythm with the rise and fall of his velvet clad chest. You are washed with the Duke’s scent, a narcotizing blend of brandy and mint and something deeper and uniquely him.

Langdon’s eyes are wide pits of black ringed by slivers of colour. They follow the lines of your throat as you swallow.

You are not sure who closes the yawning, treacherous distance first, whether it is your head or his that is the first to give in to the over tow…

What cannot be argued, is that it is Langdon who is the first to take possession of the kiss.

A hand climbs up your back and stops to wind fingers through the dishevelment of your hair. You gasp when Langdon presses his warm, marauding lips harder against yours. You have never in your life been so aware of your own mouth, of what it can feel, of how it can drink and burn all at once. Langdon’s own does not negotiate, it plunders, and breaks you open like the ripest of peaches. He licks at your lips, and when they startle open, his tongue slips in. You moan, melting into him like sugar in a hot copper pot. The taste is dark and rich and addictive.

Your fingers find his hair, that tumble of Aztec gold, and it is Langdon’s turn to moan his approval. You pull him closer, as though the space, and fabric, between you were a torment. Your head is beginning to feel light. Langdon is stealing your breath. Stealing your mind. Stealing everything that makes you an individual, everything that before felt hard won and grand, but now seems to compose nothing more than a small lonely island.

You glide your tongue in to penetrate his mouth. This wins you a vibrating groan, and the feeling of Langdon’s heart (so it does exist!) racing faster against your chest.       

You are greedy, and the Duke’s mouth is a book bursting with knowledge.

Then, just as you are surging with some new and magic power, something in Langdon breaks and he presses you bruisingly against him. His hand squeezes your ass as you are pulled up against his scalding, robe clad groin. You swear that you can feel the insistent heat of his body through the layers of velvet and silk. Your quim is desperately slick. You wonder if Langdon knows it. Is it redolent in the air? Will this be yet more food for his habitual verbal savaging of you? 

You need to breathe. You need to think.

So, you move to push him away. When Langdon’s lips leave yours there is a howling absence, a harrumphing protest inside of you.

And because he is a merciless cad, Langdon dives for your throat, dragging his lips and darting tongue down the flesh to your chest. He drags his teeth against the bone there, then sucks a furious, purpling mark. A brand of ownership that will prove vexing to conceal…

“So greedy…” he rasps against the wet trails he is leaving on your clavicle.

‘Greedy’ he calls you, as he is devouring up scraps of skin and soul.

“You will be begging me for your sixth and seventh nights. You will be begging me to initiate you into every circle of hell, sweet Y/n...”

You are startled both by the endearment and by the use of your Christian name. It sounds decadent on his lips.

You lean back and press Langdon’s chest away. Whirling around, you twist out of his arms and lean back against the obsidian slab of table, panting.

To your surprise, Langdon appears to be shaken as well.  

Congratulations, you have rendered the obscene, red fullness of his lips that much worse by kissing them.

There is yearning in the Duke’s gaze, you recognize, just as there was yearning in his kiss. And something akin to… wonder.

Langdon shakes his head, as if to dislodge a miracle. “You kiss like a dying trout,” he proclaims.

You, admittedly, haven’t done, well, ANY kissing before now, but you thought that was good.

No. Not ‘good’.

Chef Fanny’s Apricot Pudding is ‘good’. The act of kissing Langdon is spiritually significant. In those liquid, dragging moments, it felt as though your body and soul were synchronized for the first time.

“Don’t kiss me then,” you snap back. “Kissing needn’t be part of the repertoire of your five disgusting nights, My Lord.”

For a moment Langdon looks as though he might cry. But you imagined that. Surely. Nothing could be more preposterous.

“Does that mean that you accept my proposal, Ms. Y/n?” with a trepidation that you feel in the overwrought organ that is your heart.

“Yes,” you say, “Under the condition that you honour what few requests I might make during the course of our… acquaintance.”

Langdon frowns. “Such as what?”

“My first request is that, after the… proceedings of the first night have finished, you furnish me with the draft of my pamphlet, in good faith.”

Langdon’s brow furrows in consideration.

“You will still have more than enough to damn me with, Sir,” you supply, hopefully. “Like you said, you have the power to break me either way. With as little proof, or as FEIGNED proof as you brandish.”

“Why ask for the letter then?” counters Langdon.

You look away. “You would not understand if I told you…”

Langdon cocks his head to one side. “Try it.”

You breathe in, feeling even more vulnerable than you did a moment ago, when Leader of the Brimstone Society lay siege to your mouth. “The women I met at Newgate prison,” you say, “They were very strong. But their lives are so wretched. The conditions in which they live… well, I won’t bore you with the details,” you say tersely. “The last thing in the world that I want is for them, or for their cause, to be dragged into some sordid scandal involving me, the bleeding hearted aristocrat who was discovered at an orgiastic revel. That is all, Sir. That is why am asking for my letter back.”

Langdon’s face softens, but only for a moment. “Very well,” he says, hardening. “Once you have fulfilled YOUR OBLIGATION on the first night, you will receive your letter Ms. Y/m. You have my promise.”

You feel your shoulders slacken with relief. “Thank you, Sir.”

Langdon nods. “Is there anything else?” he asks in a gruff, mocking tone, “Will you require a formal contract?”

“It would not be a bad idea,” you say, “were it not for the fact that I would be damning myself with yet another article of paper you might hold over my head…”

Langdon smiles, genuinely now.

And you wonder what is the matter with you? Why is your quim wetting in expectation- in eagerness- to be touched by this cur of a man?

“If you don’t mind my suggesting, Sir…” you begin nervously. “It might be prudent to, um, demand your nights on those occasions when I am staying with Lady Cordelia. It should be, erm, easier for me to get away then.”

“Fear not, Ms. Y/n, I have ways and means of spiriting you out regardless of your location. I am Michael Langdon. All of London opens herself up to me,…”

You roll your eyes at the same time as you blush at those words. ‘Fear not’ he said… as though you FEARED, feared that he would NOT find a way to have his way with you…

“If I am caught, My Lord-”

“You won’t be,” assures Michael. “Even if you were to be witnessed, I would have many means with which to procure silence. The only thing YOU need worry about, it your friend Coco’s discretion.”

“In that regard, Sir, Coco is as dependable as the grave.”

Langdon’s eyes gleam knowingly. “Hmmm,” he says. “Lord Sotherton is not.”

You blink. “Lord Sotherton? You mean, you know about…”

“Sotherton is fond of his wine,” says Langdon, ignoring your question. “Perhaps it is time your friend Mr. Gallant plied him with it again.”

Is Langdon encouraging what you think he is encouraging?

Langdon looks toward the window. His mouth tightens. “It will be dawn soon,” he says. “You and Miss Vanderbilt should be on your way now. Your coachman is waiting in the gravel garden.”

You admit, you were half expecting Langdon to turn this tense encounter into the first of his five nights. To your eternal mortification, the Devil seems to have read your mind.

“Don’t be a goose-wit Ms. Y/n,” he says smugly. “I was hardly about to instigate our first night now.”

He crosses the distance between you and lays the gentlest, but most dizzying, of kisses to your lips.

So much for him not kissing you again.

“It seems that there is much that I will have to teach you, little swot,” he says silkily. “Perhaps the first lesson should be one about the importance of patience and discipline.”

Yes, discipline is what you will need to survive this, you think.

Discipline is what you will need to avoid falling again and again into this gorgeous flare of disaster.

You are contemplating raising yourself to his face and kissing the fiend just to confuse him, when the door of the study swings open and Langdon’s unflappable valet arrives to escort you to your coach.

“Good night, Ms. Y/n,” Langdon calls after you. “So glad that we were able to talk.”

……………………………………………………….

When you are gone, Michael stares at his shelves, suffused in a totality of shame he has never felt the like of in his life.

What, in Jove’s name, has he done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely bolded over with gratitude to anyone who is giving this story a chance! I am still finding my feet writing it and am very insecure and nervous to share. Your sweet comments and generous kudos really meant a lot! Thank you for giving me the confidence to try something I’ve wanted to for a while.  
> Also, thank you to the exceptionally kind Chibiyanai for pointing out to me, on the first day I posted, that I had accidentally posted this as something that looked like it had only one chapter. This is, to clarify, definitely going to be a long ass story!  
> I continue to play somewhat fast and loose with historical details. However, women in the regency DID live under appalling conditions in prison (and were housed with children), and often faced brutal punishments for things like petty theft.  
> ‘Chao ad orbo’ is an inversion of a real Latin masonic saying ‘Ordo ad Chao’ (which means ‘order out of chaos’). I thought Michael and his Regency era quasi-satanic edge lords would be into saying it like that.  
> ‘Battledore and shuttlecock’ was a popular sport in the regency era, it involved rackets and a shuttlecock. It was kind of like badminton.  
> Harriette Wilson, who shares a dressmaker with Coco, was a real life memoirist and courtesan from the Regency era.  
> Pieter Claesz was one of those Dutch Baroque painters who made very sumptuous, juicy paintings of food (sometimes full of exotic imports like peppercorns), and it was all very heavily tinged with consumer enterprise and momento mori-ness  
> The Volto and Plague Doctor masks are still worn today during Carnival festivities in Venice. One very famous example of Venetian masks in pop culture is their use in the ultra elite secret freaky deeky sex ceremony in Stanley Kubrick’s ‘Eye Wide Shut’.  
> Thomas Rowlandson was a real Regency era caricaturist who made some pretty racy engravings.  
> Y/n and Coco hold views that would probably have been rather radical if they had had them in the regency era, but hopefully it works. Conversely, if y/n appears prudish, it is because she is working through the mores of her time in history.  
> Smut is happening in the next chapter. I guess this had kind of been a slow-ish burn?  
> I know Michael is being such an asshole but hopefully he will be redeemed (or will he be???) all Byronic hero styles.  
> Also, I know Y/n is a colossol nerd who can’t help thinking about the Punic Wars and the like. Sorry if that is grating!  
> Thank you again for making my life by reading this fic!  
> I promise I will try to make the next chapter sexier and more fun!


	3. Chapter 3

“All extremes of feeling are allied with madness.”

― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

………………………………………………..

Michael sits alone in his study for a long time.

The instant you left, your absence filled the room like a sudden cloud of suffocating air. And now Michael is left to reel and gasp, as though he can breathe comfortably only when existing in your margins.

How he longs to be close…

But he is a demon. A cur. A Devil. A nocturnal abomination. Fuel for nightmares. In the algebra of creation, Michael is, and will ever be, a negative sum. Look how he has proven it!

Look what he has done!

The room begins to blur. Michael feels dizzy. Lacerating pain grips his abdomen.

What has he done? O Dear god, what has he done…?

Yet, it is not exactly regret he feels, is it?

Michael will do nothing to fix the situation. No.

No.

‘Fixing’ is unthinkable. The thought of ‘fixing’ is as absurd to Michael as his own longing for impossible things.

He will have this, thinks Michael, though it may eat his soul, he will have this.

His five nights.

How did it even happen? The words had sounded cold and premeditated. But they were not.

“In return for my generous silence, you will spend five nights, unchaperoned, with me.”

It was out of Michael’s mouth before he could deny himself. The beast in him had leapt at the succulent marrow of opportunity. Michael had taken. He had desired, and he had taken. Just as his Father would have done.

You had sat in the chair opposite him, warm and sweet and bathed in firelight, and it seemed to Michael that all of the beauty and kindness in the world had been condensed into one being.

How he hates you!

You bickered with him, brave swot that you are, and it had filled Michael with a need that nearly made his knees buckle. Your spell on him is, he has come to understand, unintentional. You are all blunt wit and artlessness. Is that what compels him so? Sometimes, you seem to Michael an ancient witch encased in the deceptive shell of youth. Other times you do girlish, callow things, like look away shyly when he catches your eye, or trip over your feet entering a ballroom. Michael remembers that day at Lord Bartlaw’s when you saw the telescope in the solarium. He had never witnessed anyone fall into such paroxysms of joy over inanimate metal. Michael stood at the edge of the room, like an outcast, and watched you peer through the cylinder at Venus. Your excitement was like a stake in his solar plexus.

‘This silly girl’ he thought. And he had never known such vulnerability.

Yes, Michael WILL have his five nights. He will sink deeper into the ore of evil. There can be no calibration for his madness. And no hope. Because you tasted like light when he kissed you. And you must pay for that.

Before he can stop it, Michael is doubled over in his chair, spilling the bitter contents of his stomach over the red twirling patterns of the Safavid carpet. Some of it lands on his cape. He falls to the floor, hands shaking.  

What in the name of Satan is happening to him, thinks Michael, clutching his chest.

Such is the lamentable position that Michael’s Aunt Meade finds him in when she bustles purposefully into his study. Without a shred of judgement, she proceeds to peel her nephew off the floor. Her dark blue eyes fall to the stain on his cape, then to the carpet where he has been sick. She rings for Radcliffe.

“Michael,” Meade informs him, removing the soiled cape from his shoulders and folding it for the Valet. “Your Generals are gathering in the meeting room downstairs.”

‘Generals’, Michael scoffs. That is the title his Father gave to those Lords that proved the most blind and simpering in their loyalty. He hates using it. He hates that the ‘Generals’ are now ‘his’.

“Tell them to bloody wait,” he grumbles. His mouth tastes like a graveyard. The room is still tilted in its axis.

“I HAVE,” says Meade, then adds, “You know how much they simply ADORE taking orders from me.”

Michael knew that his initiation of Miriam Meade into the Brimstone Society scandalized its members. That was why he had taken such pleasure in it. It still hadn’t lost its magic to feel them stewing at meetings at the ‘indignity’ of having to take orders from a woman, and from Michael’s ‘harpy shrew of a spinster aunt’ no less. ‘Just you wait’, Michael longs to tell them, ‘this is only the beginning…’

It has been five months since Michael’s Father died and left him the infernal congregation. Every day, Michael has longed to cut them all loose and build a NEW Brimstone Society. But alas, he cannot afford to lose so many minions all at once. Some of the Lords are useful. Like Lord Blackwood, for instance, whose country seat is next to Cordelia’s in Bedfordshire.

“I am taking Blackwood Manor,” Michael announces suddenly.

Meade raises an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“I am taking a second country home,” Michael says, trying to sound casual. “I have decided on Blackwood Manor. Being the leader of the Brimstone Society has perks, yes? Appropriating Blackwood’s ancestral manse is one.”

Meade glares at her nephew. “This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with the fact that Blackwood Manor is so very near Lady Cordelia’s own house in the Bedfordshire, where Ms. Y/n is known to stay so often, would it, Michael?”

Michael blinks. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Blast your infernal deductions, Woman!”

 “Honestly, Michael,” she says, taking an exasperated breath, “I really think that you are going about this courtship the wrong way…”

“COURTSHIP?”

“You’re just like your mother when she was in a pique of nerves…” says Mead shaking her head.

Michael can say nothing to THAT. He can only be grateful that Lady Meade did not compare him to his Father.

Radcliffe enters.

“Radcliffe, fetch the maids, and have Baldwin get another cape for Lord Langdon, one of the Medusas. O, and a cloth and bucket.”

The Valet exits, unphased, and Meade turns her attention back to Michael.

“They won’t be gentle tonight, you know,” she informs him. “They see the Revel’s lack of… blood spectacle as a weakness.”

“What was I to do,” snaps Michael, “kidnap a foundling?”

Meade shudders. “It is what your Father would have done, Michael. That, and worse.”

Michael runs a hand through the golden mess of his hair. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits. “I know that I have to keep them loyal until the time comes to ruin them all. But it isn’t as though I have an instruction manual…” Michael doesn’t even care how pathetic he sounds.

Meade scoffs. “You have SEVERAL, Michael, they are just too drenched in the blood of innocents for you to consider them.”

Michael draws himself up indignantly. “I LIVE for a bloodbath, Aunt!”

The raven-haired woman smiles gently. “Of course you do, dear. But only when Satan requires another devil in hell. So far, your two ‘victims’ have been a gouty Earl with a penchant for kidnapping and murdering prostitutes, and a notorious Viennese serial killer you imported to England through special license.”

All right, so it is true. On the two occasions that Michael has indulged his revellers with a ritualistic sacrifice, it was with creatures he considered to possess less humanity than the quill pen on his desk.

“Lord Augustus and Moosbrugger bled just as prettily as any of my Father’s rookery wenches,” he points out.

Meade brings her hand to his shoulder and grips. “I am not them, you now,” she says softly. “You needn’t pretend with me, Michael.”

Michael glares at the short, bullish woman who is all the mother he has ever known. She walked in a minute ago to find him crumpled on the floor, having soiled both his cape, and the woven, Safavid paradise at his feet- and STILL she accuses him of ‘hiding’…

“How long must it go on?” he asks Meade desolately. “How long must I suffer them in my houses? Those rutting pathetic men… They made my flesh crawl tonight, Aunt Meade. I had half a mind to bar the door and burn the room down.”

“You need Collingwood, Balfour and Vanderbilt on your side for the Hastings Bill. You need Ashton and Cornelius-”

“I understand that,” Michael interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

The invocation of Vanderbilt makes him think of you and Coco, of your beautiful, hate-filled eyes, and a fresh wave of nausea grips him. He cannot afford to be weak, Michael tells himself. Weakness fogs the brain. Weakness invites the vultures to circle.

“My point is,” says Meade, with as much patience as she would address a petulant Princeling, “you need to show these men that you OWN them.”

“By implicating them in grisly rituals? I’ve done that!”

“Executing a FOREIGNER and fornicating in public is old hat for these men, Michael,” says Meade.

His Aunt always has a way of cutting through muck.  

“Your Father bound his followers to him by awakening them to the frenzy of power and bloodlust. Once they were committed, there was nothing they would not do in the name of the Brimstone Society, because they had ALREADY done so much. There could be no turning back. The deeper one digs and all that.”

Michael frowns. “Are you saying that I do not inspire the requisite level of fear in my followers?”

Meade considers for a moment. “You can be VERY effective,” she allows. “But your Father made Vlad the Impaler look like Beaux Brummel. He left his minions in no doubt that, should they ever turn on or disobey him, he would not only expose their most shocking secrets to the wider world, he would END them. Then, probably steal their sisters.”

“You want me to decorate my banquet table with entrails?” asks Michael. “Or perhaps I should hang the terrace with skulls!”

Meade smiles, but there is a bite of reproach in her voice when she says, “Perhaps if you had, those two young ladies would not have felt bold enough to gatecrash the proceedings tonight.”

“It is Cordelia who puts them up to such recklessness,” hisses Michael.

Cordelia and her ‘coven’. The loyalty that woman inspires in ‘her girls’ is practically canine. Cordelia put you in danger, Michael thinks with mounting wrath. She may claim to love ‘her girls’ but she still saw fit to send you to the Devil (Him).

“Lady Goode did not send those girls here, Michael,” Meade says firmly. “I came away from my conversation with Ms. Vanderbilt with the understanding that they had taken it upon themselves to sneak into the revel.”

Michael frowns. “You believe it?”

“I’ve been acquainted with Lady Goode since she was a child. Soliciting two gently bred girls to dress up as prostitutes and observe the proceedings of the Babylon unfolding in your basement is not something she would ever do. I would stake my life on it.”

Michael considers this.

He called you ‘missish’. Then you stole into his house and kissed him in a way that made him feel as though his body was a mere, trembling shadow of your own. Michael knows that he ought to be stronger. But he needs to kiss you again. He would BEG if he thought it would work. He would crawl and BEG to be in your arms. He would whisper and wheeze like a parched man begging for water-

“I take it that Miss. Y/n’s discretion when it comes to the events she witnessed at the revel is something you have already secured?” asks Meade.

Michael feels the blood drain from his face. “Yes.”

“Good, Michael,” says Meade. She squints at him, as though she is certain there is something he is neglecting to tell her.

“We should go to this blasted meeting,” Michael says quickly. “Before I cast my accounts again.”

………………………

Clad in a fresh new Medusa cape, Michael walks the expanse of his dungeons to the meeting room. In nearby chambers, the revels are dying down, by the sound of it. The corridors are lined with empty cages and manacles, souvenirs of a more brutal time (maybe a RECENT brutal time).

In the meeting room, four ‘Generals’ wait. The Earls of Sutton and Blackwood, The Duke of Marlborough, and Viscount Darwood look decadent in their rumbled robes. The masks that they donned for the festivities litter the table like spoils. The room is small, and lacks an echo. Already, Michael feels overwarm and claustrophobic.

“So nice of you and your Aunt to join us, AT LAST,” says the Viscount, his voice rich with insinuation. “Could it be that the new Duke of Langdon has let his hair down and deigned to sample the charms of one of our good Nuns tonight? Is that what has kept you?”

Michael glares at the man.

While the late Duke of Langdon was still alive, Viscount Albion Darwood had earned the vicious distinction of being his most favored ‘General’. If there was ever a fellow in need of torturing or reminding of the Brimstone’s Society’s supremacy over the trembling, prostrate world, Darwood was the man dispatched.

With the obvious exceptions of himself and of his Father, Michael has never known anyone more in love with power than the Viscount. The tall, copper haired man cultivates the persona of a preening dandy, but underneath all the lavender and embroidered waistcoats, lies a creature of blood and depravity.

“I was looking over my dossiers, Albion,” says Michael sharply. “I hope I need not remind you that WE five should keep our wits sober on such occasions.”

“We watch the Watchers!” chimes in the Duke of Marlborough, a tad drunkenly.

“Yes, but there was not much TO watch tonight, was there?” says Albion.

“What are you implying?” challenges Michael.

“I could not help but wonder,” says Albion Darwood, in a diplomatic tone that cannot quite conceal his simmering outrage, “at your decision to dispense with the sacrifice this evening.”

“I should have YOU sacrificed for questioning my decisions, Albion,” says Michael with unruffled authority. He reaches into the inner pocket of his cloak and retrieves his Father’s curved, glinting dagger. This dagger, he knows, has gutted men in revels past. In the silence that descends over the small, stone room, one can almost hear it shine.

Darwood bows his head, an abject, supplicating gesture that Michael knows KILLS the man.                          

The matter is settled.

They get down to business.

Blackmail and the House of Lords are discussed.

Michael is about to adjourn the meeting, when the ass pimple of a Viscount, rears up again.

“Perhaps you have heard, My Lord,” says Darwood with a grin, “that my sister is back from her sojourn in Amsterdam.” The presumptuous glint in the Viscount’s eyes fills Michael with revulsion.

“Of what interest could that possibly be to me?” he asks.

Darwood’s smile falters. “Your Father furnished dear Isabella with a townhouse a hair’s breadth from this one,” he informs Michael. “I am sure that she will be calling any day now, to say ‘hello.’”

Michael maintains an air of indifference, even as he inwardly curses his Father.

Of bloody COURSE. Of course the late Duke would do this. Of course he will never be satisfied unless he is provoking Michael even from beyond the grave…

“I have resolved to take a property in Bedfordshire,” Michael tells the Viscount. “So, I shan’t be spending much time in the city. You can tell your sister that, Albion, should her head be filled with notions of playing the attentive neighbor.”

Disdain gathers like a wart on Darwood’s beady eyed face. “Your Father would have wanted-”

“You will find yourself entombed with my Father, Albion,” Michael warns, “should you presume to dictate his ‘will’ to me again.” He turns to address the room. “I am the leader of the Brimstone Society now. If you don’t like it, go lie with the worms.”

Darwood turns a shade redder. “Yes, my Lord.”  

Michael’s eyes meet Meade’s across the table and damn if she isn’t GLOWING at him.

Feeling as though the pride of his Aunt were endowing him with an extra hit of power, Michael turns his imperious attention to Lord Blackwood.

“Blackwood,” he says, relishing the man’s palpable surge of fear.

“Y-y-yes, Lord Langdon?”

“YOU have a house in Bedfordshire, do you not?

“Y-yes, Sir.”

“Not anymore.”

………………………………………………………………………..

The coach ride back to the Vanderbilt’s is mostly quiet.

You hold Coco’s hand. She smells of the brandy that Lady Meade plied her with and stares out the window wearing the expression of a lost lamb. She asks, in a tired whisper, what Langdon said to you. You mutter something about the Duke letting you off with a stern warning. The regular, everyday Coco would not have let you rest until you had spilled every detail of the encounter. But at this moment, your cousin is too lost in the morass of her own thoughts of her Father and his implication in the Brimstone Society to question anything you say.

The rain begins to fall. Its harsh cadence dulls your thoughts.

Even as you pull further and further away from the terrible mansion and its happenings, an imaginary tether exists between you and Langdon. No matter how far you travel, you are attached.

You can still feel the brand of him on your lips. There are spires of heat in your abdomen when you think of it.

The kiss.

To call it a ‘kiss’ is misleading, of course. ‘Inferno’ is more apt. You fell into an inferno with Langdon. You drank and drowned in flames. “Make me immortal with a kiss!” said Marlowe’s Faustus.

The terrible thing was that you had thought to live out the entirety of your little life, and leave the earth, quietly, without ever knowing such a kiss. After all, what occasion would there have been for it? But now, heaven have mercy on your soul, you think you will die if you do not have another. Not merely suffer, mind you, but DIE. You want it so badly that it fills you with terror. You hate the Duke for so many reasons. But, above all, you hate him because if he kisses you again there may be no living without him.

You stare out the window at the lacquered streets that will soon be alight with the blue smoke of dawn. You see your reflection in the blackness. Your face looks no different than it did this morning. If anyone saw you, they would not know that you are a new being. The warmth of tears grazes your cheeks. You allow yourself to cry. You cry out all the tears that you refused to let Langdon feast upon. You cry for Coco, whose vision of her family is forever altered. You cry out your confusion and self reproach.

Then, when you are finished crying, you promise yourself that you will destroy the Duke. He will regret the day your paths crossed. He will regret every torment, small and great, that he has ever heaped upon you.

And every pleasure too. 

………………………………..

The next morning, you awake in Coco’s bed covered in sweat. You are sure you did not sleep for more than an hour. And neither, likely, has she. Spears of sunlight are streaming through the cracks in the brocaded curtains. Your cousin is sitting up. Her hair is undone and rivering down her back. You see her face in profile. It is paler than her chemisette. Her Pomeranian, Crumpet, is sniffling around her, making soft snorting noises as she paws her mistress.

“I don’t think we should tell anyone,” says Coco in a voice that is entirely void of its habitual champagne sparkle.

You squint against a sunbeam and consider her proposal.

Last night, your and Coco’s attempts to root out answers regarding the workings of the Brimstone Society ended in unmitigated disaster. All that you had managed to glean was that Cordelia’s own brother was a member. Surely this was important? On the other hand, you don’t WANT to tell Cordelia about your escapade any more than Coco does. It would invariably lead to questions regarding your tete-a-tete with Langdon… and you are certain that you would combust into flames the moment anyone knew about that…

 “But, Sweeting,” you reason, “surely Cordelia should know that your Father is implicated?”

Coco laughs a bitter laugh that you have never heard from her before. It makes your chest ache, makes you hate Langdon and his cronies even more.

“That pug-like woman, Lady Meade told me that my Father is not a ‘high ranking’ member of the Society,” she says. “She said that he is only there only to ‘fornicate and make merry’. She said it so matter of factly, as though he wasn’t my Father. And though it was blunt, I admit I found it strangely comforting. She’s a funny woman, that Meade.”

Whatever Langdon’s Aunt has presided over, you decide that you are grateful to her for this kindness at least, for making Coco feel better.

“Are you sure we can believe her, Coco?”

Coco pets Crumpet with a limp hand. “I do,” she says. “There were hundreds of people there last night, Y/n. I do not believe that each and every one of them is a murdering villain. It is more likely that the rest of them are merely… weak and compromised, that they entered into it as a kind of ‘boy’s club’ at first.”

You draw yourself up and hug your knees. “It makes sense,” you say. “I agree that it is likely that many of the members see the Brimstone Society as their ticket to social standing, political power and economic enterprise. Joining is a kind of Faustian bargain, if you will.”

“I don’t believe that my Father would ever want to hurt anyone,” says Coco, tickling the fur underneath Crumpet’s chin. “But the Duke of Langdon likely has a ledger on him, as he does with all of them.” Her gaze sharpens. “Did he REALLY let you off with just a warning?”

You feel your face redden.

“W-well,” you say, looking away. “He DID laugh at my attire. And generally belittle me.”

Coco’s raises a golden eyebrow. “Hmmm. I should have thought that he would ‘up the ante’ so to speak. Laughing and belittling being so humdrum at this point.”

“H-he looked like he was rushing to get back to the um, festivities.”

Coco turns around and looks at you squarely. She folds her arms over the thin silk of her chemisette. “Let’s make a bargain, Y/n,” she begins.

O no, you think, not another bargain… These ‘bargains’ are going to be the death of you…

“I won’t pry into your conversation with Lord Langdon- even though your cheeks are currently painted with a pink that would have made Madame Pompadour’s tea cups mad with envy- IF you agree that we won’t tell Cordelia about our little adventure.”

Honestly, you love your cousin, but she can be an audacious little chit…

“Coco! That isn’t fair! O ALL RIGHT, FINE! We won’t tell.”

Coco smiles, and the champagne sparkle is back in full force as she leans over the bed and whispers, “Just so you know, Y/n, you can tell me what happened any time you choose. I won’t breathe a word…”

………………………………………………

It was an awkward to time to promise to keep a secret from Lady Cordelia, given that you and Coco travel to her country home in Bedfordshire that afternoon.

Ordinarily you love being at Cordelia’s, especially now, in Springtime, when the smell of grass and earth is deep.

You travel for two hours. Coco talks throughout. To your immense relief, she seems to be recovering herself. She keeps alluding to your ‘mysterious’ talk with Lord Langdon, however, and you keep casting her warning glares that say, ‘hold to your bargain’. 

You arrive just before evening, grateful to stretch your legs as the chatter of willow warblers fills the rain-cooled air. You walk uphill through the wide path lined with linden trees toward the house, your feet dampening in the dew jeweled carpet. After last night’s assault by decadence, you are more grateful than anything to be in the country, breathing in the sweet loam.  Truth be told, you are embarrassingly fond of the grounds of the Goode Estate. You will not rest until you have succeeded in committing every stone, every blossoming vine and every starling’s nest to memory so that you might keep them with you during the crowded city weeks. You know which tree trunks the red and silver squirrels have made their treasure troves. You know where the star of Bethlehem flowers bloom in snowy blankets. In the mornings, you rise before the household and go walking. Sometimes, you bring grain to the ducks where the river thins to a shimmering reed and the Goode Estate butts against the Blackwood Estate.

The best part of being here, of course, is how far away you are from Lord Langdon.

At the thought of the Duke, your stomach knots. You feel guilty keeping secrets from the woman who let her home become your haven. With Cordelia and the Coven, you feel real freedom, down to your very fingertips. And how do you repay her? By knowingly going against her wishes. By agreeing to become Langdon’s… (no. Can’t say it).

Upon entering the back entrance of the house (no need for formality here), you and Coco are pleasantly accosted by smells of culinary herbs gathered from the estate’s sprawling kitchen gardens: basil, mint, thyme, tarragon and lemon verbena. You pass by fragrant shrubs of rosemary, pots of chamomile flowers and bergamot so strong, it makes you think longingly of your Papa. Cordelia has a greenhouse next to the kitchen, filled with rows of lettuce, carrots and purple cabbages. Through the muggy glass, you can see exotic looking trees and winged movement. You wonder how many parrots Misty has now. Last time you were here, you counted five.

“You made it!” comes Cordelia’s voice from the dining room. “We only just arrived an hour ago ourselves. Gallant and the girls should be down any minute in the Barouche.”

Misty appears behind her, wearing a woven shawl over her tall frame. She smiles and the peach coloured parrot on her shoulder squawks, then resumes burrowing its head in her gloriously unbound hair. “We thought you wouldn’t want to come anywhere near here once you’s heard the news,” says Misty, stroking the lovely bird. 

You embrace Cordelia and hope she does not feel the guilty drum of your heart as you ask, “News? What news?”

“We’ll discuss it at the meeting,” says Cordelia, “when the rest of the Coven are here.”

……………………………….

Dinner is a casual affair at Cordelia’s, despite the ancestral grandeur that is her late husband’s family’s dining hall. Before the last course, Madison has called Queenie a ‘mutton faced bundle tail’, and Queenie has retaliated with ‘pock marked slamkin' whose dress hangs on her like a ‘wet napkin on a pitch fork’. Evidently, they are still fuming over an argument they had in the Barouche on the way here.

“Sometimes, I think they might be in love,” whispers Gallant to you between forkfuls of nougat almond cake.

You smile until you see Cordelia’s serious expression at the head of the table.

“That is enough, you two!” she tells Madison and Queenie. “If we are to make any headway in this world as women, we must remain strong and unified.”

The girls look down, abashed.

“These are perilous times,” she says, addressing the entire table now. “We have forces of untold power, such as the Brimstone Society waiting to devour us. We cannot afford to devour each other.”

When you hear ‘Brimstone Society’, your eyes lock nervously with Coco’s across the table. She gives you a look, half imploring and half warning. A promise is a promise, you don’t need to be looked at that way to know it.

“Which brings us to our unfortunate news,” says Cordelia. “We got word this morning that the Duke of Langdon now owns the Blackwood estate adjoining this one."

Sounds of outrage ripple through the table.

“Langdon?” cries Queenie. “But how? The Blackwoods have stewarded that land for literal centuries.”

“It was given to them by William the Conqueror,” supplies Madison, whose Grandfather is a living, breathing ‘Debrett’s Peerage’.

Misty nods. “He acquired it naught but a day ago. The official line is that he won it at the card table from Lord Blackwood.”

“Unofficially,” adds Cordelia with arch distaste, “Blackwood probably gave it away in exchange for no more than the pleasure of being seated next to Langdon at the banquet in the next revel.”

“Must be that the Duke is suspicious of us,” says Misty. “He wants to be close by so that he can keep an eye on our comings and goings.”

“But what could it be that has peaked his suspicion?” wonders Madison aloud.

You and Coco make eye contact again, then look guiltily away.

“It was only a matter of time,” says Cordelia with a baleful glint in her eye. “After all, we do allow most of our little pigeons to live…”

Misty frown over her wine goblet. “I resent your besmirching the name of pigeons by comparing the scoundrels and rapists we apprehend to them.”

Cordelia’s gaze softens at her paramour’s words. She can’t but melt in the presence of Misty, you think, like so much wrought iron in a foundry.

“Nevertheless,” says the Duchess, “we must be more vigilant in our Coven dealings from now on. NO MORE POKING AROUND THE BRIMSTONE SOCIETY. For now.”

Gallant opens his mouth to protest but Cordelia raises a silencing hand. “For NOW, Mr. Gallant,” she says gently. “Believe me, I want to get to the bottom of John Henry’s death as badly as you do, my friend.”

Gallant nods.

A portentous silence descends upon the dinner table.

Only to be interrupted by Coco.

“This pudding is EXELLENT!” she says, too exuberantly. “Really, Aunt, you must have your cook teach our Fanny the recipe. I feel as though I’ve died and gone to heaven and all the clouds are nougatine!”

Ignoring Coco’s effusions, Queenie asks, “Does this mean we are going to skip Lady Pemberton’s ball on Sunday?”

You can tell, just by the eager way she asks, that Queenie has been looking forward to Lady Lavinia Pemberton’s ball, which is to be held here in Bedfordshire on Sunday and is to boast to attendance of the girl’s latent admirer, Algernon Fullerton, or ‘Algie’ as Queenie has taken to calling him. 

“You WILL be attending the ball,” says Cordelia. “We shall not deviate from the ordinary. You are society debutantes and I am your matronly chaperone and we are GOING to that ball, as is expected of us. We’re not going to give Lord Langdon anything to furrow his pretty brow over.”

Misty Day frowns. “You think the Duke is ‘pretty’?” she asks in mild outrage.

“I don’t care how deep you are into Lady Cordelia’s scrubbing brush, Misty” says Madison, never failing to ascend to new heights of vulgarity for all her noble birth and finishing school polish, “You HAVE to admit, the Duke is GORGEOUS.”

A strange thing happens to you when hear those words. It is as though an animal is awakened beneath the decorum that has you under perpetual house arrest. You actually have a vision of pushing Madison into the ground. Which is absurd.

You love Madison.

You hate the Duke.  

“If he wasn’t such a horror,” says Gallant matter of factly, “I should like to write a poem about his lips.”

Misty wrinkles her nose. “You two must have been sloshing in bristol milk,” she says.

“They say that’s how he corrupted women all over Paris,” says Madison knowingly. “They’d take one look at him and entail their lands AND bodies. The men too. He’s got the Devil’s own magnetism, that one.”

Queenie, who has a troublesome habit of asking you what YOU think about Langdon says, “What do you think, Y/n, seeing as you’re the one he’s always paying attentions to?”

You look down at your plate of crumbled white paste. “He’s not Helen of Troy,” you say, feeling Coco’s burning, interested eyes on you in particular.

“Here, here,” agrees Misty, then she blinks and asks, “and who’s this ‘Helen Troy’ when she’s at home?”

………………

You go to bed that night glad for the privacy. It isn’t that you don’t like sharing a bed with Coco, and basking in all the sisterly confederacy that you never had in your former, astrolabe littered life… You just need to think. Alone.

You stare up at the golden and yellow canopy of the four poster, trying to reason with yourself.

This isn’t ‘life and death’ you think.

But that isn’t how it FEELS.

The Duke of Langdon has acquired the house next door.

You wonder if his presence in the country means that he intends to ‘claim’ the first of his five hell blasted nights. The terrible truth that you would never admit to anyone, is that you are not precisely sure whether it is dread or hope you feel at the prospect.

Does he intend to ‘enjoy’ all of his nights in quick, fevered succession? Or, will the Duke ration them out like a wandering Bedouin who turns over half-buried stones just before sunset, and trickles the dew from their surface into a hide water bag?

You wonder how it will be… when he does… whatever he intends to do.

You would ask Coco to tell you more about her experience with Lord Sotherton if you weren’t sure it would arouse her suspicions.

Whatever it is, you hope, with all your heart, to hate it immensely.

……………………………………………………….

Michael has always liked Blackwood Manor. It’s the gargoyles, he supposes. He has a weakness for gargoyles, especially when they sprout o so hideously from a flying buttress. It is all very ‘Castle of Ontranto’, Blackwood Manor, and should do wonders to worsen Michael’s reputation.

The entrance hall boasts a vaulted ceiling made up of dozens of pointed arches. Outside, the grounds are wild and unkempt, full of towering, brooding oaks and warped juniper trees. A murder of crows swarms the sky over the turrets just before sundown. The Estate’s game keeper, Price, assures him that this has never happened before.

“I have that affect on wildlife,” deadpans Michael.

Michael’s favorite room in the manor is the library. It is full of dust and cobwebs. Michael doubts that any Blackwood has read anything other than ‘The General Stud Book’ in more than a generation. It leads into a rather handsome study, the vaulting ceiling of which Michael has hung with a model of the solar system. Michael tries not to imagine what your reaction to the massive floating orbs would be. He tries not to wonder if your face would light with approval.

Michael has brought a number of books with him and already ensconced them in the Blackwood patriarch’s former abode. He is settling comfortably rather comfortable, looking over the dossier of one of the Brimstone Society’s more eccentric revelers, when his Valet, Radcliffe, arrives to inform him that he has a visitor.

Michael looks up from his pages and frowns. A visitor? Who else but Lady Meade even knows that he is here?

“A… Lady, Sir,” says Radcliffe with a disdainful curl of his whiskered mouth. “If SHE can be called as such.”

Well THAT wetted Michael’s intrigue. For all that he serves the ‘Devil Duke’ and beholds the endless procession of vice and maleficence that forms the backdrop of his life, Radcliffe is, as Michael has discovered on a number of occasions, rather a prude. He’s practically Oliver Cromwell if Oliver Cromwell had harboured an interest in the latest fashions. But Michael has trusted him since he was nineteen. Radcliffe knows everything.

That means that this ‘Lady’ must either be one of the society wives and widows that whisper to Michael that they would ‘love to be corrupted’.

Or…

Fuck.

“Lady Darwood, Sir,” says Radcliffe.

Yes, HER.

Fuck.

“Tell her I am out… grouse hunting or whatever it is these chinless Blackwoods do on the estate. Is it pheasant season, Radcliffe?”

“No, Sir.”

“Fuck.”

“Quite, Sir,” agrees the Valet, the indents at the corners of his mouth tightening austerely.

“I suppose she must be let in then…” says Michael.

“Very good, Sir,” says Radcliffe, even though they both know that there is nothing ‘very good’ or even ‘somewhat good’ about it.

Michael draws himself up in his seat. He knew this day was coming. Had braced himself like a diver before a rippling surface of ice-cold water.

And then she enters.

Lady Darwood is clothed in pink, with copious lace trim around her decollate. Her platinum hair is a complicated settlement of curls at each side of her head. She sails across the room to him and Michael is reminded of the past. Her tall, feminine figure always glided thus, like a conquering ship, across ballrooms and palaces and galleries and gardens. Everything about the way Lady Darwood carries herself is a study, a work of artistry. Everything that looks like a charming accident, is in fact, the stroke of a virtuoso. Even the way she sits down now: her back is poker straight and the velvet of the chair seems to rise to meet her.

When those familiar eyes fix upon Michael, he holds his breath, as though half expecting an old wound over his chest cavity to tear open. She is seven years older than Michael, which would make her seven and thirty now. It is possible that time has deemed Lady Darwood too dangerous to touch, for she has altered stunningly little in the ten years since Michael saw her last. Her face now, as before, looks chiselled from god kissed marble. Her eyes are the like the ocean roiling beneath whalers’ harpoons. Her mouth is red and erotically, though unfashionably, full. ‘A match for my own’ Michael thought once, long ago, when he was a mooncalfed idiot. He cringes at the memory. The thinking such thoughts had more than justified his destruction.  

“Is Meade in good health?” the visitor asks.

‘Meade’, notes Michael, not ‘Lady Meade’, a glancing disrespect, quick and evaporating as cigar smoke, but pungent in the air.

“My Aunt is well,” he replies.

“Give the battle axe my regards,” says Lady Darwood with an impertinent little snarl.

“And ruin her day?”

Isabella lets out a trill of musical laughter. “How droll you are, Michael. Is she in the country?”

She is asking him, Michael knows, whether the coast is clear. Whether she can expect to luxuriate in privacy. Shameless as she is, the last thing Isabella Darwood wishes is to be caught en flagrante delicto by the dreaded ‘battle axe.’

“Lady Meade resides in London in the Spring. As I thought YOU did,” points out Michael. “Or, at least, that is what your coxcomb brother led me to believe when he spoke to me the other night.”

Isabella smirks as though she is remembering something utterly hilarious and untransmittable. “O dearest Albion… I do hope that he behaved tolerably at your little ‘revel’ last night. He can be such a savage when hasn’t been plied with wenches and blood sport.”

So little has been uttered, and yet Michael finds so much to revile in it:

  1. The word ‘savage’.
  2. The implication that Albion Darwood has not been sufficiently gorged on sex and violence to make him a biddable enough fellow for Michael’s purposes (what is Michael, a bawd? A lanista of gladiators?).
  3. Lady Darwood’s gloating over her knowledge of when the Brimstone Society conducted their last revel.



“Your brother, like all members of the Brimstone Society, can be excommunicated whenever I deem fit, Lady Darwood,” Michael reminds her.

Lady Darwood smiles a slow, carnivorous smile that he remembers well. “Please, Michael,” she says, bringing one gloved finger to brush against her bottom lip. Her gloves, cream coloured, and kid leather make it feel, somehow more salacious than skin touching. “We are such old, and intimate friends, you really ought to call me Isabella.”

“I prefer formalities,” says Michael tersely.

“Is that why you have your Valet act as your Butler?” asks Lady Darwood, amusement dancing in her eyes like spears of light in a sapphire.

“When one traffics, as I do, in intrigues and stratagems, Lady Darwood, the people one can trust, are few and far between.” As soon as he has said them, Michael recognizes that is a substratum of meaning in those words which he had not intended for there to be.  

The invocation of trust, of BROKEN trust, floats spore-like in the space dividing them.

“I see,” says Lady Darwood, biting her own leather clad finger, then letting her tongue dart over where she has bitten. “Your trust, once lost, is lost irrevocably.” It is less a question than an observation.

“You could say that.”

“How childish,” she snaps, then looks away from Michael as though she has grown suddenly bored. Leaning back, she makes a show of examining the shelves lining the study shelves, then tips her head up to gaze at the expanse of vaulted stone above her head. “Congratulations on acquiring Blackwood Manor, by the way. One usually has to be born into property like this, or, at the very least, fuck one’s way into it.” Lady Darwood delivers this with studied nonchalance but gages his reaction a little to obviously.

“Lord Blackwell did not seem to mind parting with it,” says Michael, unruffled.

“Let me guess,” says Lady Darwood, placing her elbows on the desk and leaning in conspiratorially, “the poor fellow didn’t even attempt bargain you down…”

“Bargaining implies transaction,” says Michael dryly.

“Well, done Duke,” she says. Then pauses, grinning at his new title. “’Duke of Langdon.’ It fits like a well-worn glove already doesn’t it?” She punctuates the words by slowly, finger, by finger, peeling off her own cream coloured kid skin.

“It fits well enough.”

“What a terrible throne to be burdened with...” Lady Darwood says with a tut.

“No throne can be all that terrible, now can it Lady Darwood?”

“Not if the King has the right Queen sitting next to him.”

Well, thinks Michael. THAT clarifies things.

“You think I am in need of a consort?”

“As much as you cleave to your Aunt’s apron strings, Michael,” says Lady Darwood in a voice delicately laced with mockery, “I doubt that the woman has the fortitude, or the stomach, to be the General you need her to be.”

Lady Meade would have the fortitude, and the stomach, to box Lady Darwood’s ears if she heard her say that, Michael wants to point out. But he does not. He may be an evil fiend, but he is still a Gentleman.

“We debated endlessly, your Father and I, about whether you were going to heed the call when he named you the Brimstone Society’s new leader in his will.” says Lady Darwood, gliding her gloves back and forth against the pink silk of her knee.

‘I am made of rocks,’ thinks Michael in an effort to keep his exterior impassive.

Lady Darwood forges on, “I was the one who said you would never return to England again. Your Father on the other hand, was always so smart about people… He said, ‘I know him, Isabella’. He said that you would never be able to resist the power if it were to be dropped, all dark and full blooded directly into your lap.”

A muscle in Michael’s jaw twitches. “I should have thought,” he says icily, “that my Father would have been far too fat headed to ever contemplate events to occur AFTER his death.”     

Lady Darwood’s laughter assaults him again. “Really Michael! How ridiculous. You were his absolute favorite subject. Leo never wearied of speaking of you. Perhaps he thought that he would live on in you. ‘Michael is my legacy’ he would say. And he was not wrong. Your Father never was, about people.”

“I had not spoken to him in years,” says Michael. Living in Paris with Meade, keeping his own notorious company, and burning, unopened, every letter that he ever got from his Father… in all that time Michael thought himself FREE.

But he hadn’t been, had he?

No. Not really. Not ever.

“Leo had the ‘devil’s insight’, as some call it,” says Lady Darwood. “Some people thought he WAS the Devil. But Leo was a mere mortal- and male one at that- in the end.” She giggles. “Well, ESCPECIALLY at the end, truth be told…”

Michael wants to retch at that. The fact that his Father died in Isabella Darwood’s bed is whispered about the ton over. The fact that it happened in the throes of unpalatable passion has been, before now, mere speculation.”

“They say that one should die as one lives,” says Isabella. “Well, in that case, Leo was either going to die presiding over the drawing and quartering of some poor Earl or die the way he did. When his heart gave out, I thought to myself: ‘Funny that, I didn’t think he had one.’”

“Like recognizes like…” observes Michael.

Isabella’s ice berg blue eyes flash with triumph. “He said that you were still angry at me,” she says, her dazzling smile widening. “That means you still CARE…”

“Don’t be a beef brain, Isabella. It does not suit you.”

She continues smiling. “There! You have used my Christian name. Was that so difficult? You used to call me Bella, remember? That, and your most darling-”

“ENOUGH,” bites out Michael. “What have you come here for, Lady Darwood?”

Isabella stares at Michael from across the desk.

He is still so beautiful, she thinks, with mild annoyance. There is something about beautiful faces that makes Isabella want to step on them. This boy, in particular, she has always thought, would look good beneath her toes.

Yet, Isabella is an appreciator of beauty. She loves it above a great many things that people claim to find more interesting. Sometimes, all beauty need do is sit there, existing, and it creates the most amazing spectrum of sensations. Her own has opened doors for her in this world that a woman with a weaker spine would have thought resolutely closed. She, like Michael, has been fashioned by nature to be an overlord of others.

Looking at Michael now, Isabella feels the thing inside of her that has hibernated for a decade rousing. It is a strange feeling, neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It is both power and the opposite of power.

The fact is that, in the entirely of her thirty-seven years, Michael Langdon is the only person Isabella has ever known with the power to turn her into a mirror that greedily drinks his light. Usually SHE is the light, and some grizzled, vampiric male is the mirror.

Admittedly, he still looks a little young. But what he lacks in patina, Michael makes up for with exquisite eyes, and a mouth obscene both in appearance and, if memory serves, performance. The impudent way his lips had curled when his eyes met the shape of her in his doorway has made the ass numbing, two-hour journey from London in the Barouche Landau worth it.

Isabella closes her eyes and, once again, privately, silently, thanks Leo for being dead. Now that he is, Isabella can take up the bloom of her life again. She darts her tongue out over her upper lip, like a python tasting the air. Being around Michael, she cannot help being caught up, cannot help wanting, all over again, to have him.

Honestly, how dare he be the best fuck of her life?

Unrivaled. To this day. Ten years, and countless others later (Leo always had loved an exhibition), and Isabella has not forgotten it.

It had started as Leo’s little joke. That was all it had been: a scrap of entertainment her benefactor had dreamt up in between blackmail and culling members of the underclass…

At first, the idea had repulsed her. ‘Your own son?’ she had asked the old man, “you wish me to seduce your own son?”.

The challenge had been issued in the big bed they had shared, Isabella and Duke Leopold Langdon. It had been his marital bed with Michael’s mother. It was the very bed the woman had died in, in the fevered, blood drenched aftermath of giving Leo his heir. One had merely to runs one’s fingers down the satin coverlet and feel one’s self befouled.

‘Yes’, the horrible old man had replied.

Isabella, who was seven and twenty at the time, had reasoned to herself that she had already lived well past the disintegration of her own soul. What could there be left to lose?

Four years earlier, her Father’s gambling had left Isabella, her Mother, and her useless Brother, Albion, penniless and close to destitute. That was when Leo had seen Isabella, covered in unnew finery, tipping back champagne and dancing like a Cyprian at a London ball. She had spent many evenings thus, in an attempt to chase away the worries that hounded her day and night, that gave Isabella nightmares and turned hairs on her golden head prematurely silver. The Duke, taken with the lively, ringleted girl, had smelled an opportunity, and proffered an offer. ‘Carte-blanche’ was what the ton called it: to live under the protection of a wealthy man, but without the sanctity of marriage.    

Isabella, who, at sixteen, had given away her virtue to one Lord Nicholas Chasteberry in exchange for an exquisite emerald brooch that her Mother had lately pawned for firewood, did not believe in the ‘sanctity’ of anything. The rule of life was transactional. Her asset was her beauty, and it was not one that she would have forever. The Duke of Langdon was the richest man in Britain. Under his protection, Isabella and her family could live more decadently than Croesus the King. With wealth, came safety andeven prestige. 

The offer had been simple, her answer equally so.

What did it matter that Leo was forty-three years Isabella’s senior? All men, she had found, were much the same, when the candles were blown out.

Isabella had expected much and gotten more from Leo the Duke of Langdon.

She was showered with every imaginable sparkling bauble the universe contained.

She was the mistress of the finest apartment in Grosvenor Square.

Her Mother hired a French cook and grew positively fat.  

Albion began to ‘make a success’ of himself in offshore ventures. He also became Leo’s most loyal lapdog in a not-so-secret-society dedicated to orgies and world domination.

What Isabella had NOT expected was to find a kindred in Leo, the Demon Duke.

In Leo’s company Isabella, was free to be what she was: ruthless, brilliant, and powerful. Even as she brined herself in the broth of her soul’s darkness, Leo whispered to go further. And it felt good to do so. It felt good to enter into abandon. It felt good to lord power over others, to feel their envy burn, to crush them with her shoe when she saw fit. From the hour of her birth, Isabella had been the victim of the family and society that had produced her. Now, bathed as she was in the power of the Duke, she found the world suddenly hospitable. More than that, it was hers to command.

Early on in their companionship, Isabella told the Duke that she had not ever felt the ‘gentle’ feelings in her bosom that women were prescribed to feel. She gloried, she confessed, in seeing horses bleed and friends be disappointed. “We shall have to arrange for the ruination of some of your ‘friends’,” the Demon Duke had laughed. “But under no circumstances are you to be allowed near my stallions.”

Isabella never forgot the first Brimstone revel she ever attended.

There was her Leo, her Lord and Protector, with his papal robes and snow-white hair, presiding over a cathedral of chaos. She held her breath as a Judge and an Earl killed a man with knives simply because Leo bid it. Isabella was transfixed by the beautiful, awful sight. She was standing so close to the raised platform that her bosom splattered with crimson. Dabbing a finger over her breast, Isabella was unable to resist raising the fluid to her lips to taste. Her tongue swirled over and over, as if to revive a Eucharist.

Isabella’s future unfurled before then her like a glowing, woven carpet. It was to be full of riches and pleasures. The Duke had actually LIKED Isabella to take other lovers, provided that she furnished him with exhaustive (and potentially damning) details regarding each and every encounter. It was a game she played with this powerful man. Like Shahrazad, she told him stories in the night. Hearing about her seductions of lesser men, got Leo more impassioned than performing any acts himself. Isabella began to go deeper, to do more, simply because it tickled her to see his reaction. She had had Lord Granville and Lady Sainsbury in one night. She took lovers young and old and had special penchant for being the FIRST- or rather, becoming the magnificent standard that precipitated a lifetime’s worth of disappointment. Isabella had doomed the sons of Lady Crawley and Countess Eastham to such fates and was intent on doing the same to Lord Sotherton, when Leo had made his proposal regarding his Son, Michael.

Isabella had, up until then, heard the many stories about the Duke’s mistreatment of women. Leo, it was said, had tormented his late wife, so much so that her death in childbed had come as a relief to her. But the old man had never treated Isabella harshly- in fact it was just the opposite. He lavished her with presents and praise. He spoiled her and professed that she was his ‘one weakness in this world’. Isabella had eaten it all like it was her due. She had assumed that Leo treated her differently because she was not like other women; because she was the most beautiful creature the Devil had ever created and had a charcoal heart to match. Had Vivienne Langdon not been so inferior and weak-willed, the Duke would have treated her like gold.

But the instant Isabella saw the then twenty-year-old Michael, she understood how wrong she had been. It dawned on her, with the clarity of a cloudless morning, that THIS was to be the torment Leo had devised for her.

And what a torment!

By all rights, he should not have known his way around a woman, at his age. Prior to their multi-act, manor-spanning, furniture annihilating sex romp, Isabella had naturally supposed that a man that gorgeous as Michael would not have felt the need to acquire anything above a rudimentary level of skill.

The boy was easy enough to seduce. Michael was young, and, it must be said, appreciative of women as a species in a way she had not encountered in other aristocratic men.

Isabella felt liberated with Leo, but she had still kept her innermost self locked away. Becoming the story that any given man needed her to be came as naturally to her as breathing. But Michael fucking Langdon was like a warm mist, invading all the secret rooms of her being.  

Leo had planned it like clockwork. He arranged to be ‘abroad’ while Michael and Isabella holed up in the ancestral manse. For four days and nights, they lay blissful waste to one another. There did not seem a moment when Isabella was not folded in the beautiful boy’s embrace, or coming undone under his talented tongue, or twirling her fingers in the coils of sunshine he called hair, or glorying in the sound of her name on his lips as he rode her to pleasure like the devil spawn that he was.

They fucked in every room in the estate. On every surface. UNDER every surface. They filled the house like a symphony.

The last time they came together was the morning of Leo’s impending arrival. Tears rolled down Isabella’s perfect, alabaster cheeks as a pitiless, yellow sun emerged over the horizon. And Michael had kissed the corner of her mouth and looked upon her with such tenderness… “I feel it too,” he said.

‘I feel it too.’

Isabella had died a thousand deaths as she sat there, pretending to be unmoved by Michael’s despair when the truth was revealed to him.

When Leo Langdon, his own Father, had laughed in his face.

“I go to France for a few days,” the old man mocked, his gray eyes mottled with evil joy, “And you FALL IN LOVE with my mistress…”

Isabella’s nails bit into her forearms as she sat and listened. Listened without remorse. In her tenure as Leo’s mistress, she had gleefully presided over the ruination of dozens of women. She had smiled at the sight of blood painting her hands.

If one looks long enough at evil, she learned, one ceases to see it.

But this, THIS, Isabella saw vividly. The agony of Michael Langdon when he discovered that his Father had arranged for him to fall in mooncalfed love with, then be spurned by his own Mistress...

Why?

Simply to breed hatred in the boy? To obliterate his heart? To teach him a lesson? Yes, this evil Isabella saw. And never forgot.

Michael fell to the ground and wept. He turned his angel’s countenance up to her and asked if it had been real.

Isabella forced herself to smile like a reptile a. “You were a pleasant enough diversion, My Lord,” she replied.

And then Michael fled to the continent. He reconnected with that bull dog of a maternal Aunt and cauterized his wounds with scheming and debauchery.

Today is the first time Isabella has seen him since he had crawled before her. It is said around the ton, that Michael is grown inhuman. It is said that he is proud of this condition, of how ‘bad’ he is.     

Well then, beautiful, bad people like her and Michael Langdon deserve to have one another.

Ten years has been quite long enough to wait. Having Michael again, ON HER OWN TERMS, simply because she WANTS to will be a wonderful restorative. It will make Leopold Langdon seem like a very old, very safe memory. Although, nowadays, if she thinks of her deceased benefactor at all, it as a butterfly, remembering the state of caterpillar-hood, without ever being pulled back into the dirt.

“You need me,” says Isabella simply. “We could rule the country and the Brimstone Society, together.”

Michael is looking at Isabella in a way that makes her stomach feel like flapping wings. There is a smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Now what makes you say that?” he asks.

“How long until the well of loyalty dries up, Michael? You are dealing with monsters.”

“Yes,” Michael agrees. “But it is not loyalty that keeps the Brimstone Society under my thumb. It is fear. I have a wealth of material to damn each and every one of them. Moreover, I can have their families threatened, or killed. Monsters love things. Their money. Their station. Their families. Everyone is vulnerable in some way.”

It is Isabella’s turn to smile. “But WOULD you do it? Could you, Michael? If someone’s innocent little virgin daughter had to be made collateral, would you be able to stomach it?”

With an unwelcome burst of guilt, Michael remembers his five nights. He remembers of you, sitting in his London study last night, steeling yourself in an attempt not to cower. He thinks of all the advantage that he has over you. Michael has everything but the Devil won’t let him rest until he has you sewn beneath his very skin.

“You presume much,” he says coolly, “based on what is a distant, long forgotten, fleeting acquaintance.”

“Perhaps,” Isabella allows. “But that does not change the fact that you NEED ME.”

“Perhaps it is you who needs ME, Lady Darwood. From what I have heard, you invested a large part of your fortune in the failed lowland canal scheme. You are out thousands of pounds. Perhaps you are merely angling for a new benefactor…” The edge in his voice, the little sliver of volatility gives Isabella hope. “Is it possible that you been unable to ensnare one, in the months since my Father died?

Her lips curl. “You say that as if you don’t remember…”

“Remember what?” asks Michael icily.

“What my cunt tastes like,” she looks at Michael dead in the face. All of the passion that has lived hidden, close to her bones for a decade is pooling out of her like smog. Leaning in, she whispers, “Perhaps you need to be reminded.”

“Isabella-” Michael warns.

“Like wild strawberries melting on your tongue… that’s what you said to me.”

Heat rises in Michael’s face. “I was a boy.”

“You had the knowledge of a man.”

Michael scoffs.

“You took me with such authority,” Isabella goes on, her hungry gaze fixed on him. “I was quite beside myself. For those few days, I quite forgot Leo…”

“You remembered him pretty quickly after,” Michael points out.

There is a theatrical air in the way Isabella sighs then, like Sarah Siddons at the height of her career. “How long must I be punished for my one transgression?” she asks forlornly. “If you only knew what my life has been, Michael… We are kindred spirits, you and I, both ruined by the same man.”

“From what I recall, my Father covered you in diamonds, gifted you villas in Tuscany and a castle near Munich. He made you a tastemaker. He gave you the wherewithal to torture your enemies.”

Isabella’s sapphire eyes harden. “I will not be accused of being greedy by the likes of YOU, Michael Langdon.” She smiles again, and pivots, all honey. “There was a time when you were greedy for me…”

“I’ve evolved.”

Isabella laughs as though that it the funniest thing she has ever heard. “Don’t tell me it has not been in your mind since the minute I walked in, Michael.”

In all honesty, Michael had NOT imagined making love to Isabella. But the ‘why’ of it perplexes him. Isabella SHOULD be correct. Why wouldn’t he take her up on the offer? Why not sleep with her? WHY DOESN’T HE WANT THAT?

He should.

She is still as ravishing as she was then.

But beneath her seductive mask, Michael perceives only tragedy. He does not even feel triumphant, seeing his old conqueror offer herself thus. He feels nothing.

And his heart, that angry, fugitive thing, beats for another woman entirely.

“You still have not forgiven me.” says Isabella, leaning back in her seat and folding her arms over her chest. She seems, in that moment, like little more than a petulant child.

“What is there to forgive, Lady Darwood? Ten years ago, you helped my Father furnish me with an education. How could I resent that which has made me strong? On the contrary, I appreciate you, Lady Darwood. But we have not had use for one another lo this decade. And that is unlikely to change now, simply because my Father is dead.”

For a split second, Isabella’s face flickers with something like rage. Has she always cracked this easily, wonders Michael. He remembered Isabella as being like a diamond, not this brittle beauty before him.

He cannot even find it in his petty heart to blame her. Michael does not envy the plight of women. He would murder himself if society required such adaptability, and such poised compliance form him. He was just a stupid boy ten years ago. He had not recognized what a shape shifter Isabella was. If he had known, he might have loved her even more. Back when he loved her. 

Isabella watches him. A smile ghosts over her lips. “There is someone else,” she pronounces suddenly.

Michael blinks.

“Yes! Yes, there is! I don’t believe it!! Michael Langdon is quite taken with someone. The only question is WHO?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I wonder, is it a society widow? A practiced courtesan? Or some trifling little debutante, letting your hand stray under her skirts while you are intimidating her Papa?”

“I don’t know what you could be talking about Isabella…”

“How flustered you are!”

“I have never heard such nonsense in all my-”

Isabella’s face brightens with a terrible smile. (Perhaps she isn’t so beautiful after all, Michael thinks).  “That is why you have acquired the Blackwood property! The object of your sordid little affections must be close by! But wait a moment… only Lady Cordelia Goode resides within walking distance of this house. O!” Isabella practically croons. “You are besotted with one of her little army of gently bred virgins!!!” Her face shrivels in exaggerated distaste. “O Michael… How beneath you!”

“The longer you talk, the more addled you begin to sound, Isabella…”

“Is it Ms. Madison Montgomery with her twelve thousand a year and her surly Grandfather? Or could it be the Rubenesque Ms. Queenie? O, could it be,” Isabella asks, lowering her voice to a stage whisper, “that you have turned the Duchess herself? Leo told me once that Cordelia lays with her maid. I wonder what the society matrons she has enchanted into thinking she the arbiter of taste, elegance, and flawless widowhood would say if they knew that?”

Michael nearly winces at the glee in Isabella’s voice. In his vault, among the treasure troves of blackmail material that his Father bequeathed him, there is a love letter written to Lady Cordelia in the hand of her ‘maid’, Ms. Misty Day. The missive is riddled with spelling and grammatical errors, but there is something about it, barely literate as it is, that rended Michael’s heart upon reading it. Even though Lady Cordelia is Michael’s natural enemy, he cannot imagine using the letter to besmirch her. Even if it came to all out warfare between them, he would find something else to destroy her with. But never the letter. It is something about the way Ms. Day has written, ‘to mi sueet anjel, Cordelia’. That is the line what makes Michael feel the saddest of all. He is not sure if it is because he pities the lovers for having to hide from the world, or if he envies them. The world, after all, has a habit of ruining that which is beautiful and pure, and punishing those who love.  

 “Go ahead,” says Michael coldly, “I’ll let you have your moment…”

Isabella makes a show of stifling her laughter. “All right, Michael, if that is how you are going to be. Have your little girl. Have your fun. I will wait for you return to yourself. Then, we can make the world burn, you and me. But don’t expect I’ll be chaste in the meantime.”

There is a spite in Isabella’s voice that reminds Michael of his Father whenever a particular strain of madness struck him, usually just before the beating of a nurse maid (for which Michael was invariably responsible. He had been a clingy child, and his Father punished, without mercy, those he clung to).

Hatred blooms over his being like fungus in a rainy forest. The Blackwood study, the whole echoing library, the house itself and the land it occupies suddenly feel too small to accommodate him and Isabella Darwood.

Michael wishes he could escape them all, his Father, his Father’s Mistress, the Brimstone Society, all of them…

Seeming, at last, to have sensed his wish, Isabella rises and proceeds to pull her cream coloured, kid leather gloves over her fingers. “I bid you adieu, Michael,” she says. “That has been a most illuminating conversation. I hope we will repeat the experience soon.”

She glides out of the room and, as he sees her to the door, Michael is assaulted by the familiar smell of jasmine essence. It does not make his heart beat wildly, as it used to. Michael searches once more, for some residue of the former feeling. He can find none.

When she is gone, he wants to ventilate the room.

Perhaps, he thinks, it was a mistake to annex Blackwood’s property. Michael told himself that he had done it to keep a closer watch on Cordelia and the Coven. The pathetic truth is that he wishes to inhabit the same square of earth as you do.

The problem is that now Isabella Darwood does too.

 

 

 

 

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel horrible for not yet delivering the smut that I promised in the last chapter!!! You have my word, that, barring some unpredictable life or work crisis, I WILL be posting the next installment by Tuesday AT THE LATEST. There will be smut in that, if I have to stay up a whole night. I am not a smut withholding monster!!!!  
> This story just seems to want to be a slow burn and I am following its orders. Sorry to anyone who was disappointed.  
> Debrett’s Peerage was a manual for everyone in the ‘ton’ to know who got their titles from which Sovereign and when.  
> ‘The Castle of Otranto’ by Horace Walpole was published in 1764 and is generally recognized as the first Gothic novel.  
> The idea that Michael (and his Father before him) have ‘Generals’, is, I am sure, inspired by the fact that I have watched ‘Castlevenia’ straight through twice in the past few days. Same goes for that planet mobile thingi Michael put in the library.  
> Madison and Queenie once again exchanged authentic period insults in this chapter.  
> The references to ‘casting one’s crumpets’ and ‘casting one’s accounts’ are a nod to what people in the regency period called vomiting WOW I DO SEEM TO REPEATEDLY MAKE MICHAEL GUILT-VOMIT IN MY FICS, don’t I? It’s not, like, a kink, or anything, I swear.  
> Y/n quotes from Christopher Marlowe’s Elizabethan era play ‘Doctor Faustus’, which is all about, you guessed it, Devil dealing.  
> The reference to Michael ritualistically sacrificing an Austrian serial killer named ‘Moosbrugger’ is a reference to Robert Musil’s ‘The Man Without Qualities’, which is a very fine book.  
> I hope my OC, Isabella Darwood is not super boring!! I like me a scheming lady, what can I say?  
> I apologize if this latest chapter is not up to editing standards. Life has been busy. I promise the next will be 1000% smuttier and more typo free.  
> AND JUST A FINAL NOTE: this story is TAGGED WITH A RAPE/NON-CON ELEMENTS warning. Blackmailing the reader in order to sleep with her is one of the main cruxes of the plot. I trust that anyone who knows that they will be triggored by such things will steer well away from this garbage raft I am sailing on.  
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR SWEET WORDS OF SUPPORT, AND GENEROUS READERSHIP!!!  
> Smut to arrive, Tuesday, at latest


	4. Chapter 4

‘Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, Did my heart fly at your service’

 -William Shakespeare

The Tempest

.....................................................

Sunday evening sees the ton descend upon Lady Lavinia Pemberton’s ballroom. Hundreds of beeswax candles light the room. Their honeyed glow is compounded by the clever aid of scores of mirrors, sparkling glass, and rigorously polished silver. It is beautiful. Yet, when you look at it, you cannot help but see money and labour. You wonder if your poverty (relative to others of your class) has made you thus: unromantic, stingy, course. Watching Coco, Madison and Queenie billow like dervishes round the floor, in their white and gold brocade, you have a moment of weakness.

You lack their spirit, you think. You lack their plumage. You lack their dignity. You lack their worth.

If one wishes to dance at a country ball, one requires a partner, for such is the tyranny of the times. A young lady alerts gentlemen that she is willing to be danced with by pinning up the train of her dress. Should a gentleman request a dance, the lady must either agree to dance with him, or else forgo dancing for the entirety of the evening. For their part, gentlemen are obliged to engage multiple ladies as dance partners over the course of a ball. To engage the same lady for two or more of the evening’s dances is to express a special interest in her. This has potential to tarnish that lady’s reputation, or otherwise embroil her in complications. It can also mark the beginning of a formal courtship. Ball attendees scrutinize the dancing of quadrilles and minuets like sentinels over a battleground. It is a big headache, you tell yourself. Why would you court the attentions of dance partners? To do so would make you an object of pity, or worse, diplomacy. Your pride simply will not allow it. So, the train of your gown remains resolutely unpinned.

Perhaps it was a mistake to patrol the fringes of this ballroom, while your friends are dancing.

Because of course, Langdon finds you.

And of course, he is just as snarling and unpleasant as always.

“Ms. Y/n,” he says, sidling up to you and raking you with his appraisal. “You would look almost presentable, that is, if one looked at you through one of your beloved telescope lenses, at close range.”

“What a coincidence,” you say brightly, “because one wouldn’t even need scientific instuments to find you revolting.”

Only, he is not revolting is he? Langdon looks unbearably good, like he always does, outfitted all in the raven black that provides such striking contrast to the brilliance of his hair.

“You are not dancing,” Langdon notes.

“What remarkable skills of observation you have, Lord Langdon. Does anything escape your notice?” you say, hoping against hope that sarcasm will turn him away. To your dismay, Lord Langdon’s interest is only sharpened.

He leans in closer and whispers, soft as velvet in your ear. “I might have to take you over me knee for that, Ms. Y/n. If you cannot bring yourself to be civil, the like will not be extended to you, in or out of the bedroom.”

Heat pools in your face. You ignore the sensations ringing in your quim. He speaks of civility? Whatever civility there ever existed between you was burned away like mist in the morning sun the moment he met you and proceeded to step on your foot. Everything since then has been naught but warfare. It is a unique position to be in, you suppose. It affords you nothing save for the chance to deal with Langdon with total honesty. So, you turn to him and say, “Can it truly surprise you that I do not dance, Lord Langdon?”

“You are of the age when dancing ought to make the heart merry, Ms. Y/n,” Lord Langdon remarks. There is an acid bite in his words. You are not sure if it is you he scorns, or the ritual you decline to participate in.

“It does not make my heart so.”

“Why not?”

To your surprise, the question sounds earnest, as though he would genuinely like to know. So, you answer truthfully.

“For my friends, dancing is the chance to display themselves, to flirt with men, to touch gloved hands and forge an interest. For me, to dance at a function such as this is to be a lone deer in a dark forest, throwing back it’s vulnerable throat and begging for arrows.”

Michael arches one eyebrow. “That sounds suspiciously like self pity, Ms. Y/n.”

You let out a laugh. Perhaps champagne has loosened your inhibitions. Or perhaps it is merely the day’s worries. “Rightly noted, Lord Langdon. I must endeavor to maintain my cheerful disposition in the future, even as I am being blackmailed and threatened.”

For the briefest of moments, you would swear you see contrition flicker in the Duke’s handsome face. But it is gone as quickly as moth’s wings. Surely you imagined it.

“Lord Chesterton is looking at you as though he wishes your train WERE pinned up,” Michael surprises you by saying. His eyes are on the dark haired, dandyish young man across the room. Langdon looks as though he would like nothing more than to skin him and wear him as a mantle. You stare at him, then at Chesterton. It is a stark contrast. Chesterton is, objectively speaking, a handsome man, and his mustard coloured waistcoat looks dapper on him. But next to Michael, he appears child-like and wan.

The Duke looks out over the room, then, for a breath of a moment, his eyes widen slightly, as if in surprise. His mouth tightens and his body grows stiff, like he touched something that chilled him to the bone. You follow Langdon’s line of sight to the cause of his distraction. When you find it, your heart plummets in your chest like a lifeless thing for reasons that will remain firmly beyond the reach of cognition for a little while yet.

She does not so much enter the room, as HAPPEN to it. You would swear that even the musicians falter for half a beat.

She does not so much walk as, glide, and the line of her back would put a prima ballerina to shame.

She is not so much beautiful, as irradiating, as though her tall body is in the habit of swallowing stars. Her blonde hair is arranged in a complicated style which is partly flowing down her back. Her whole person- ears, hair, fingers, throat, shoes- is winking with diamonds. The dress she wears is of purple silk, cut low over an impressive bosom and embroidered with gold.

Her face was exquisite. Truly. There is no more appropriate word for it. It is the sort of face that seems to have been designed to illuminate the flaws of other faces; as if nature is afraid that people will not know to recognize mediocrity if THIS is not provided for contrast.

You forget to breathe when this magnificent woman scans the room purposefully, then, finds her target: Michael. To your profound agitation, she nods at him.

NODS.

Nods with a studied, seductive kind of lethargy.

Nods as though she is consenting to have the universe brought to her on a platter.

Nods, as though in solidarity with the only other being in the vicinity who is, like her, so alluring as to appear inhuman.

There is something possessive in the blonde woman’s eyes as the floor carries her toward Langdon. He instantly becomes EVEN MORE the envy of every other male in the room, but you would not know it from studying his stony expression.

“Michael!” The woman’s voice slices the waft of musician’s strings. It is a sultry voice, but cold: a tart berry covered in frost. She comes right up to stand beside him but does not spare you a glance. A frisson of interest spreads throughout the ballroom. The interactions of these two, tall, radiant beings  are going to be disseminated for weeks. You are simply standing there, geographically implicated. You try not to look at either Langdon or the woman in a way that would appear unsubtle. You hold out a bizarre hope that Langdon is the one man in the world impervious to this roving, perfumed column of feminine perfection.

“It has been barely a day since our time together at Blackwood Manor, Michael, and I must confess that have I missed you,” says the woman, not caring who hears.

Your throat is filled with something brick-like. So much for Langdon being ‘impervious’. Did he have an assignation with this woman at his new house? That would certainly explain why she rakes him with such a proprietary gaze. 

Langdon gestures to her, then to you. The introductions he performs are rote as the movements of an automaton, “Ms. Y/n, may I present Lady Isabella Darwood. Lady Darwood, this is Ms. Y/n.”

Lady Darwood’s expression when she turns her attention to you nearly makes you stumble back. Her blue eyes are colder than the vast emptiness between stars. It is not mere indifference, which is what you would have expected, there is something harder in her gaze than that. It is the look one gives before one thrusts a dagger into something. It is the way Clytemnestra looked at Agamemnon before she went to get the net. If the ballroom, and the candles, and the dancers, and the dandies and the matrons were not here, you suspect you might see another aspect of this beautiful lady entirely. You want to tell her that there is no battleground here, no prize to be won.

“Charmed to meet you, Lady Darwood,” you say, curtseying unsteadily.

Lady Darwood says nothing, simply accepts your courtesy. Then, she turns to Langdon again. “Have you taken more time to consider the proposal I laid out for you?” she asks. “I doubt that you will ever receive such an advantageous offer, Michael- advantageous on so many fronts.”

A strange thing happens next: Langdon actually grimaces. He is usually so good at guarding his emotions, at appearing cold and unflappable. But something about Lady Darwood needles him.

Fascinating.

“I do not see any advantage in the offer for me, Lady Darwood,” he says.

The laughter she accosts him with is high and musical. Lady Darwood has made laughing at men a kind of art form, you note with a little spike of appreciation. It is laughter like a whirlwind of golden autumn leaves after a carriage has ridden by, beautiful even whilst scratching the pavement. She touches her palm to his chest when she laughs, a scandalous touch by the standard of the age, but one she executes as though it were a mere accident of mirth. 

When she is done laughing, Lady Darwood sobers and says, “We should dance.”

You have never heard of a lady asking a gentleman to dance. Or rather, as she has, DECIDING it. To do so would be considered the soul of impropriety.

And yet, what can the Duke do but oblige this ravishing Lady. Taking her elegant hand, Langdon leads a pleased-as-punch Lady Darwood to the dance floor, leaving you in the dust.

They look beautiful when they dance, like a marzipan couple in one of Fanny the Cook’s ‘Christmas Creations’. They look as though they were meant to MATE. To dance. To rule the world. And what is worst of all, they are dancing a waltz, the dance that scandalized Lord Byron (of all people).

For a long time to come, you will ponder over the motivation behind the thing you do next. But the decision comes as if without the intermediary of brain or thought. And then you are simply there, living it to its conclusion.

You pin up the train of your dress.

In moments, like a shark sensing the weep of a seal’s wound in the water, Lord Chesterton is making his way toward you across the ballroom.

“May I have the pleasure of claiming your first dance, Ms. Y/n?” says the tall man, bowing slightly.

You agree.

You allow yourself to touch your hands to his, well fingertips only, really. The waltz begins. And there is a certain pleasure in being led by his movements, like a frivolous silk kerchief flying in circles on a windy February day.

Other than the time you and Langdon went mad and kissed each other in the firelit sanctum of his study, this is the closest you’ve ever been to an adult male. Chesterton is well built, an avid horse rider. He has fine black eyes and a head of hair over which he is famously, and justifiably, vain. But you feel nothing with Chesterton. That strange, riot of sensations that came when Langdon pulled you into his arms, is nowhere to be found.

It is strange, you think, that it has come to this. You are dancing. Not only that, you are dancing the dance that gives poets ‘moral reservations’. In the whirling periphery of your vision, you see that Michael’s hands are on Lady Darwood’s waist. This, you know, is considered the most degenerate variation of the waltz position. Langdon and his dance partner are sending out waves of scandal with every turn they take on the floor. They are being whispered about, even now, and scrutinized mercilessly.

So, why do you look at them with a bolt of envy?

You are so obvious that Chesterton notices you looking at the couple, and smiles. “Like Father, like Son,” he whispers, his dark eyes alight with the joy of fresh gossip.

You look up at him, surprised. Lord Chesterton nearly salivates when he informs you, “Didn’t you know? Lady Darwood was the Duke’s late Father’s Mistress.”

You whip your head back to the whirling couple in a way that is both vulgar and makes you stumble a little in your steps. Chesterton smirks. “Isabella doesn’t like to wear black, so she took off for Amsterdam after the funeral. It would appear that everyone was right when they said that she was only biding her time between Langdons…”

Something about the reptilian pleasure in Chesterton’s voice makes you wish you were hitting the man over the head with an umbrella instead of dancing with him.

Your eyes wander back to Langdon and you stun to find him staring at you.

Even as he holds a goddess in his arms, it is YOU he stares at. 

And you have never seen this particular expression on anyone’s face before. Unblinking, glacial silt eyes bore into you in a way that is utterly foreign. They burn with intent. Langdon looks furious. Ready to kill, ready to slit Chesterton up the middle and feast upon his entrails.

It is primitive. Beneath you. But you are electrified by the sensation of being looked at like this, right down into your termagant little quim. Your lips part and you feel a crimson flush spread to your ears, as though you have done something wrong- EVEN THOUGH YOU HAVEN’T.

The fire in Langdon’s expression does not long go unnoticed by Lady Darwood, you turns to look at you. You look away then, as though you are a tiny rabbit in an open field who has just caught the attention of not one but two ravenous foxes.

You focus, instead, on Lord Chesterton’s overlong sideburns. He really ought to have those trimmed, you think.

When the dance finishes, you mumble your farewell to your dance partner and make for French Doors lead that lead into the back garden. You feel overheated. Overwrought. The room sparkles too much. There are too many people.

When you are finally outside, you close the doors behind and you take in great, floral lungfuls of air. Everything is better now, out here, in the garden with only hawthorne bushes, and Lady Pemberton’s famous butter coloured roses for company. The night is cool. The moon is shining but clouds are gathering in layered billows of silver and gray. There will be rain tonight, you think.

You wish it would fall now, and simply wash you away. Or perhaps, wash Langdon from your thoughts. You FELT the way the Duke looked at you across the floor just now. Your quim answered his eyes and you were helpless against it. IN THE MIDDLE OF A DENSELY POPULATED ROOM. This one mere LOOK turned all of the surrounding humanity to a charcoal smudge. This one look painted your body in fever. You regret dancing with Chesterton. You regret opening yourself up to be looked at like that. Less than nothing is what you felt when Chesterton touched your hands on the dance floor. It is what it would feel like, you imagine, to dance with a brother if you had one. But all Langdon had to do was LOOK at you and you were struck down by the intensity of his concentration. You ran away like a frightened child, you are humiliated to realize. And there is no going back in there. There to be no more Lady Darwood. You will simply have to live out the remainder the night here, in Lady Pemberton’s garden, nestled amid the safety of flowers.

But there is to be no such safety.

You are looking away from the French doors, focused on the stem of the rose, where prickles rise out of the cortex and epidermis. Many people erroneously call these ‘thorns’.  But they are not true thorns, you know.

You are not aware of his stepping out. You are not aware of him until he begins to speak to your back. 

“Clearly, you are not as opposed to becoming a ‘deer in a dark forest’ as you expressed earlier, Ms. Y/n.”

“Perhaps, I changed my mind,” you say, turning to look at him.

Moonlight touches Michael Langdon as though it too is fascinated by him. If the heavens themselves are drunk for him, what hope could there be for you?

“Attempting to ensnare Chesterton into marrying you would be a futile and degrading enterprise I would not wish even on you, Ms. Y/n,” says Langdon with snarl. “As much as you seem to crave punishment, you would do well to save yourself THAT trouble.”  

The accusation of ‘craving punishment’ disorients you momentarily. It takes a few moments for your outrage over his words to hit. “I am not trying to ‘ensnare’ anyone into anything, Lord Langdon!”

“All evidence points the contrary. Really, it was rather shameless, cleaving to him like a willow in a storm. You little cousin Coco will be dismayed to find Chesterton’s slobber all over her dress when you return it to her at the end of the night.”

You are too furious to be embarrassed at that. But you are calm as you walk toward the Duke, and when you are looking up at him, closer to his face than you had initially aimed, you say, “If you talked less, Lord Langdon, people would not be as inclined to regard you as the pretty, but vapid and dissipated ruin that you are.” 

Langdon’s anger is quiet, manacled, incandescent. And it is an anger, you sense, that is all the more dangerous for its being flecked with desire, like blood poisoned by droplets of mercury. The behaviour on display can only be really be explained in one way- though you can hardly bring yourself believe it: you have made this man JEALOUS by dancing with Chesterton. Chesterton! who, to your mind, might as well be a shapeless homunculus.

Langdon regards you with a moon gilded, emotionless face. “You think that you are so clever, Ms. Y/n,” he says slowly. “Baiting me.” And when he says that, you stun to notice, though only for a moment, his pale eyes fill with something raw and helpless.

Baiting him with what? you wonder. He is not a salmon.

You have no time to ask Langdon for clarification before he places a hand to the back of your neck and pulls you to his mouth.

There is an ache in this kiss, mingling there with fury and intoxication and bliss. Langdon kisses you as though it is hurting him to do so but would hurt infinitely more to not.

His golden, waving hair, curtains your faces in the most pleasant way. Langdon brings both of his palms to your cheeks. You are weakened by the gesture. Confused. Your knees nearly give out as you give in to the kiss like the wanton that you are. You even open your mouth to him and allow the sweet serpent of his tongue to caress your own. It feels so good that you hear yourself moan. He licks into your mouth. You shudder in pleasure. And Langdon’s lips grin against yours in recognition of how much you like it, and that is when you summon the strength to push him away.

You pace breathlessly between rose bushes, as the Duke gasps at the other end of the garden.

You wait.

You expect that any moment he will begin his tirade. He will chew you out for kissing him. He will chew you out for liking it. He will tease you for being unskilled and over eager. He will say that you wrinkled Coco’s dress when you pressed yourself against him like the libidinous tart that he has turned you into…

But Lord Langdon does none of these things.

Instead, he says:

“Tonight, my coach will be parked near the Northwest courtyard of the Goode Property, on the gravel road where the boxwoods provide cover. You will go home now and go to bed with a ‘headache’. You will slip out of the manor through the greenhouse after midnight. You will not be seen. You will not be followed. And you will tell no one.”

You stare at him, not breathing. His eyes shimmer. His lips are red and wet where you kissed.

“D-do you mean that…”

“Yes,” says Langdon, with a satisfied baritone that terrifies and thrills you. “I intend to take the first of my five nights.”

With that, he turns, and walks back into the house. You are alone again in the garden, half wondering if you only imagined the exchange. He might be like one of Walpole’s phantasms.

But when you close your eyes, there is only the taste of Langdon in your mouth, the breeze leaden with the smell of roses and the soft beat of inevitability in your heart.

………………………………………………………

By the time you have found and surreptitiously asked (a slightly dubious looking) Sanderson to take you home and then return for Coco and the girls, reached Cordelia’s, changed into your walking outfit,  slipped out of your bedroom, and, with all the light-footedness of an alley cat, moved through the house, past the kitchens into the greenhouse, then out the back, it has begin to rain.

Then, because nature has always hated you and Papa for wishing to fathom her, thunder and lightning arrives.

The Duke’s ominous pitch-black coach (what other colour could it possibly be?) is waiting behind the tall boxwoods that Lady Cordelia planted a year ago ‘for privacy’ (how she would regret, if she knew…).

Two black geldings and the familiar sight of Langdon’s poe faced Valet greets you. The valet scowls at you as he opens he door. You thank him anyway.

The inner compartment of the coach is full of gold fittings and glossy, honey-toned wood. The seats are upholstered with cream satin and the ceiling studded with sapphires and seed pearls patterned to form dozens of glittering ‘L’s. You doubt that you have ever seen the vanity of an old family expressed quite so extravagantly. Barely does your wet bottom sink into the seat before the compartment begins to move.

You are cold and wet and drenching the inside of Langdon’s fancy vehicle. It serves him right.

…………………………………………………………………………….

Blackwood Manor may occupy abutting land, but it is very different from Cordelia’s friendly, parrot filled house. Ivy has claimed half the façade, and all around there is an air of emptiness, which, you suppose, you ought to feel grateful for.

When you enter, it is like stepping into another time. The darkness feels primordial, medieval, ready to be drenched in blood. Intricate fan vaulting covers the ceiling. Tall, lancet windows line the wall, shimmering and crashing with the storm outside. The centerpiece of the hall is the enormous, imperial staircase. The heavy oak door closes behind you and Langdon appears at the top, summoned like a beautiful ghoul. The Valet takes his cue to exit.

The Duke’s pale countenance seems to float through the shadow space. He looks demonic, not from this world. Yet you are surprised to hear something human-like tinge his voice when he observes, “You are soaked through.”

“What did you expect?” you retort, through chattering teeth. “You made me come out here in the middle of a storm. Was I supposed to go ask Lucy for a parasol?”

You are attempting to cover your nerves with annoyance as you stand, dripping a veritable flood all over the finest example of the gothic revival you have ever seen.

Langdon approaches in echoing, floor eating strides. “You must get out of those wet clothes at once,” he orders, his words resonating in the enormity of the hall. Your face must have blanched at this, because he rushes to add, almost gently, “You will catch your death otherwise, Ms. Y/n. Come.”

Before you can argue. Lord Langdon takes your hand into his impossibly warm one and leads you to the staircase.

HE IS HOLDING MY HAND, you think, as you climb the steps, then, promptly proceed to slip and fall into him.

Langdon turns and catches you against his chest. You are met with warm, black clad firmness, and the sweet waft of mint. You turn your eyes away, unwilling to be caught staring when the inevitable insult arrives. You hold your breath and brace for it.

“Idiot,” breathes Langdon. The close, throbbing whisper leaves you uncertain whether it is you or himself that he describes. Your mind puzzles over the problem until it is silenced by the alarming sensation of Langdon’s strong arms lifting you into the air. You gasp as the Duke holds you against his body like you weigh no more than a feather. Your chest is pulled hard against his and your senses are overloaded with too many wonderful, terrifying things at once. You are soaking him through, you realize. The front of his shirt is now damp. And he isn’t even complaining, even as your cold leaches his heat.

“W-w-what are you doing, Lord Langdon?” you ask tremulously. Your heart is pounding so hard that surely he feels it, there against his own, right where you’ve soaked him.

“You have proven yourself incapable of walking without inciting self injury, Ms. Y/n,” snarls Langdon, even as his arms move to cradle you tighter. 

You want to argue with him. To point out that you wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for him and his…. Demands of you. But your body speaks louder. As you ascend the stairs, the duality of two creatures bursting with antipathy for one another is momentarily transformed into melting unity. Langdon climbs without a whiff of exertion, and you fight a ferocious urge to bury your face in his neck, into the golden reservoir of curls there, as the glorious materiality of his body presses against yours.

“You are trembling,” he says as you reach the top the stairs.

“I’m wet and cold,” you say defensively.

Langdon says nothing, just makes a gruff, inarticulate sound.

You enter through a set of vaulted oak doors into what your brain panics to recognize is a bedroom.  

There is a fire crackling in the enormous stone hearth beset with ancient looking moldings of wolves, foxes, rabbits, porcupines and other forest dwellers. Before it are two plush looking caramel leather chairs. A massive bed serves occupies the end of the room. The posts are carved from ebony to resemble, appropriately enough, four coiling serpents. Atop it, lies a mountain of pillows, glowing with silken, amber hued splendor. A red, embroidered robe is draped across the coverlet. You suppose that this robe is for you to put on. You reach for it, then turn and look expectantly at Langdon, hoping he will take the hint and look away.

Langdon absorbs the gesture and rolls his eyes. Soft menace threads his voice when he says, “If you think you are going to persist in covering yourself for five nights-”

“I know,” you say, interrupting him. “But grant me the whim of a slow death, Lord Langdon.”

He frowns, as, you imagine, many men would if their seductive techniques were compared to dying.

Langdon moves toward the door.

Where are you going?” you ask, ridiculously. (WHY WOULD YOU BE ASKING THIS?)

“I will return, Ms. Y/n,” says the Duke, his voice full of velvety assurance. “I must fetch you more blankets, and something warm to drink.”

The robe, upon further inspection, is among the most beautifully crafted articles of clothing you have ever seen- a work of art, really, in its own right. Cordelia would be taken over by spasms of appreciation for it. The coral silk is sewn with patterns of butterflies, plum blossoms and the coppery leaves of a Japanese maple tree. You are grateful, despite yourself, to shrug off your boots, and peel off the numbingly cold layers of your walking dress, chemisette, and stays. The fabrics are audibly water logged when you drape them to hang over the animals circling the hearth. You close your eyes and stand for a moment, brazenly naked before the roaring fire. It bathes your limbs with blissful heat. Untying your hair, you let the tresses fall, combing your fingers through, then shaking your head like a wet spaniel. The wind whistles like a taunting crone outside.

You are determined not to cower before any of this, you remind yourself. You will make your practical best of the situation at hand. You long ago stopped lying to yourself that Michael Langdon did not provoke certain… reactions in you. You will pass a few hours in his company. That is all. Whatever happens inside of those hours will not have the power to alter you unless you ALLOW it. He may be morally repulsive. But physically, Langdon is, decidedly, not. You resolve to take that as your hollow consolation. Breathing in courage, you open your eyes and walk back to the bed.

Slipping on the robe feels heavenly against your skin. If you owned it, it would surely be the most exquisitely wrought thing in your possession. Your treacherous mind wonders if it has ever been worn by one of Langdon’s lovers. Lady Isabella Darwood springs, unbidden, into the forefront of your thoughts. Even in the absence of notable evidence, you are certain that the Duke and Lady Darwood have slept together. That two such gorgeous, slithering creatures occupying the same space and time must intertwine at least once is a law as seemingly incontrovertible as Sir Isaac Newton’s concerning motion. But where Newton’s laws fill you with joyous interest, the thought of Michael tangling with Lady Darwood does not. It fills you, instead, with bile and possessive rage.

Probably, you think, you have gone mad.

Yes, that is almost certainly what it is, eliminating all other possibilities: 

-your temper has not been destroyed by laudanum

-you have never attended a nitrous oxide party (though Madison has tried to drag you on more than one occasion)

-you do not have syphilis

So, therefore, the condition is spontaneously occurring. No fault of your own.

Langdon knocks on the door before entering, a gesture for which you are grateful. You stand and try to look unruffled.

The Duke enters, steaming mug in hand. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you. Then, clearing his throat, he hands you the drink.

“Tisane with lemon, brandy and sugar,” he explains. “It will warm you.”

“Thank you.”

“You shan’t be catching a cold on my watch Ms. Y/n,” says Langdon, and your traitorous heart is dangerously close to softening before he adds, “because you would almost certainly get ME sick.”

“I did not realize that Satan himself could be felled by something as seemingly innocuous as a cold, Sir,” you say, before taking another sip of the sweet, warming liquid.

“I’m not Satan,” says Langdon. “I’m his Son. Or at least that is what the ton whispers about me.”

“I never had the misfortune of meeting your Father, Sir,” you say. “But from what I hear, the family resemblance is deeper than skin.”

Langdon’s expression darkens and you immediately find yourself wishing you had not said it. Perhaps all of those things that Coco, Queenie and Madison told you about the late Duke’s debauched and, occasionally murderous ways were wrong. Either way, it feels cruel to have said that to Langdon. He did not choose the loins he sprung from. Nor did he choose the name he bears. (Even if he DOES continue to conduct ‘revels’.)

“Forgive me if-” you begin to say, then look down at your bare toes peaking out beneath the overlong trim of your robe. “I spoke out of turn, My Lord. I am very sorry.”

A muscle in Langdon’s jaw twitches. He looks at you with something like incredulity. “Are you a blockhead, Ms. Y/n?”

This is what Michael says. What he is actually thinking, as he stares at your radiant, fire warmed face, is: ‘How can there be evil like me in the world, when there is good such as THIS?’

“No,” you answer. “I am not a blockhead, Sir.”

You are only telling the truth as plainly as it must be told. Michael has heard you speak about Tycho Brahe, and Johannes Kepler’s ideas regarding planetary motion. “The farther a planet is from the sun,” you said over tea with some matrons at Mrs. Nesbitt’s garden party some weeks ago, “the slower it moves, since the angular momentum does not change.”

Fuck him if that isn’t the sexiest thing Michael ever heard anyone say…

Of course you’re not a ‘blockhead’! Your mind is nimble and full, and porous, and captivating and so beautiful that Michael feels bullied by his own cleverly manufactured scorn for it.

More than anything, he longs to sit at your feet, like a scholar in the garden school of Epicurus, and listen to you speak of Virgil. And Sappho. And the ‘eccentricity’ of an ellipse. And Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi. He has seen your face turn luminous with these subjects before. And every time, Michael has made himself stop and sneer, and say something to dampen your joy and replace it with shame.

Why does he do this?

Surely Hell has more to ask of Michael Langdon than the debasement of this one particular angel?

But how can he help it? When you taunt him with such perfection? The feeling in his soul, Michael tells himself, is merely lodging there. It will go away, this obsession, possession, whatever it is. It will burn away. Or, he will quench it, and it will drown. He cannot remain like this.

The five nights will do it.

Then it will be over. Forever.

Then he will be able to live and be himself once more.

Michael knows that he is grossly unworthy of touching you. But still, he intends to. He will take. He will have. Nothing can stop him. That is how he knows that, for all of your science, ‘enlightenment’ and empiricism, it is still the Devil’s universe in the end.

“It is blockheaded to apologize to the man who holds your world ransom, Ms. Y/n,” Michael says irritably. “Not to mention your virtue.”

You stare at him, considering. “You may hold my ‘world’ ransom, Lord Langdon, but my virtue, my decency if you will, is my own.”

“Decency?”

You bring up a hand to stop him. “I know what you are thinking, Sir.  NO, I do not mean the ‘decency’ that society calls that which does not dare to challenge its shame. I mean that moral compass that is mine and mine alone. The things that I do and say that I must live with, in the silence of my solitude, and carry with me forever.”

Michael’s eyes burn into yours. He scoffs. “A moral compass, Ms. Y/n? Of what use is such a thing if it is liable to break and shatter beneath the hooves of creatures like me?”

“You are in error, Sir,” you say, with in a quietly determined voice.

“How so?”

“You believe that if I hand my body over to you, for your… sordid purposes, I will regard myself as morally or spiritually tarnished.” A violent blush rises in your cheeks. “But you are wrong, Sir. Any ‘morality’ that does not arise out of compassion for other human beings is useless to me. Compassion IS the basis of morality, Sir, not ‘respectability’, or shame over carnal acts. It is because I have compassion for my friends and would not see them ruined and slandered in public, that I submit to your five nights. And I will walk away from each with my head held high, Lord Langdon.”

Michael is rendered momentarily speechless by that, but quickly recovers. “If you are going to quote Schopenhauer to me, Ms. Y/n, you really ought to credit the man.”

You break into a smile that makes the chained fugitive in Michael’s chest flutter. The invocation of Schopenhauer turns your lovely cheeks redder than your own utterance of the phrase ‘carnal acts’,

“You’ve read him?” you say with surprise.

“You really DO think that I’m nothing more than a pretty, dissipated ruin.” says Michael with a genuine smile.

“You have yet to prove otherwise...”

“And you still believe that you can come away from a night alone with me- nay, five- with your little halo intact?”

You raise your chin, imperious as a Queen, instead of the frightened little girl you feel yourself to be, deep down. “Whatever you put me through tonight, Lord Langdon, it will not be half so terrible for me as it will be for you.” 

It is then that Michael realizes how sorely he has misjudged the metal of the opponent he is dealing with.

If he was a braver man he could take you by the hand, or dance with you in public. He would divest himself of whatever games and hollow power he lords over you, crawl on his knees and beg like a supplicant before his goddess. He would cherish your body as he wishes and look upon you without feeling daggers of shame rend his insides.

But he cannot do that just now.

And if he tries, he might not get anything.

And if he does not touch you tonight, he will die.

That is how things stand with Michael.

“Do you think I will have any trouble living with myself after ruining you, Ms. Y/n?” asks Langdon, leaning forward. The hearth gilds him with flame and shadow. He looks gold plated, like the shining face on the lid of a sarcophagus that belies the shriveled one beneath. 

“Not at all, Sir,” you say, fighting to sound neutral. In neutrality, there is power. “I know that this is a game for you, even if it is rigged in your favor.”

“Did the revel really not frighten you?” asks Michael suddenly, frowning.

“In all honesty, Sir, it did, a little.” He looks very pleased until you add, “Only because Coco was there. I was an idiot for letting her come. If it had been only me, and I had not run the risk of exposing my friends and endangering their reputations, I don’t suppose I would have been as afraid.”

“Does it not frighten you to share quarters with a murderer?” asks Michael.

“No, Sir.”

“Perhaps it should.”

“ARE you a murderer, Sir?”

“Yes,” he answers, after waiting a moment.

“It is entirely possible that you are not my first.” 

His eyebrow raises. You know that Langdon is thinking of the Coven. You know that he knows more than he lets on.

His lips part and, for a hypnotic moment, he worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “You have never had a lover, I take it?”

“No,” you admit. How did you go from discussing murderers to lovers, you wonder. And is that what the Duke is to become? Your ‘LOVER’? Surely not. Surely that isn’t the language this calls for… Michael Langdon HATES you. He belittles you. He reserves greater respect for the dirt under his boots.

But something happens then.

There is a change in the fire warmed air.

Lord Langdon’s attention weaves like a web over your being. It should make you feel tiny and unbearable scrutinized. Instead, you feel yourself -your femininity- unfurl and expand. 

It is power you feel when Lord Langdon lowers his head and looks up at you from beneath his dark fringe of eyelashes. “Do you dread our time together?” he asks in a rumbling whisper that ripples down your sacrum. You are aroused and awake. Your quim, bypassing your own will and good judgement, is viciously attuned to his man. 

“Would my dread make you desire more?” you ask. You turn away then, losing your ground. You half expect him to laugh in your face and mock you for the presumption that he could ever desire you at all. 

Instead, you hear a slow, pained exhale, a dying animal sort of sound, a breath that is very nearly a pant come out of Langdon.

When you look at the Duke again, his crystalline eyes are staring at you with pupils so dilated, you would swear that he has imbibed some potent drug. Every word that Langdon says next sounds as though it is been torn from him, painfully. The aloof manner with which he has addressed you all this evening has been charred to ashes. “There is nothing,” he says, “dread, or otherwise, that could make me desire you more, Ms. Y/n.”

You stare, dumbfounded, as the Duke rises from his chair and crosses the short distance between you. For a moment, his form towers over you, and you are punishingly aware of his crotch near your face. But quickly, he drops to his knees. Lord Langdon places a warm, sure, hand on each trembling knee and, gently pushing, insinuates his torso between them.

Your quim is experiencing sensations that are orders of magnitude more explosive than the fireworks Coco’s Father ordered for her Birthday last December.

You realize, as heat radiates from Langdon’s palms and licks up your thighs where he has not even touched, that you have been lying to yourself after all. Michael Langdon’s touch is not something that you are merely willing to tolerate, it is a NEED. Need is claiming you like unstoppable lava flowing down the mountain toward Pompey. And what is worse, you are beginning to suspect that that need carries a scent, and that it radiates from the apex of your thighs, and that it speaks to Langdon of your desire more eloquently than your lying mouth ever could.

The Duke leans in closer as if to inhale you. To your utter mortification, you squirm closer as well and your knees fall apart ever so slightly, which wrings from him a groan of recognition. 

“What have you done to me?” he rasps before his mouth claims yours.

What have YOU done?

The protest that the statement richly deserves dies on your lips as his glide over them. You melt into the kiss. A tremulous joy threads your heart, sharp as a needle. He wants you. And though, you know, it is only for sex, you cannot help but burst with exhilaration. 

The man kneeling (KNEELING!) between your knees has accused you of inducing him to desire you despite his best efforts. And, madwoman that you are, you have nothing better to do than attempt to kiss the sense back into him.

The beautiful scent of Langdon permeates your senses. His warm hands graze up your thighs. Without thinking, you spread more for him, as though it were the most natural course of action. It strikes you, with sudden, dissonant panic, to remember that you are naked under this read robe. A sliver of silk is all that separates your flesh from the pads of his masterful fingers. You freeze, and Langdon pulls back.

“It is all right,” he says, brushing an errant wisp of hair from your cheek.

“Lord Langdon, this is… As you know, I’ve never… I don’t know how to…”

Does he intend to take you, TONIGHT? Will the Duke pierce you? Make you bleed, then send you home smelling of him, smelling of your own arousal?

“Ms. Y/n,” Langdon asks, lifting his fingers to your chin and bringing your gaze to his own. “Do you intend to honour our agreement tonight?” The exquisite control with which he has bound his own desire takes your breath away. You stare at him, light headed, humiliated, exhausted and… you want.

“Yes,” you say, and when you look away, you feel the tight grasp of Langdon’s hand on your chin and bring your eyes back to him.  

“Do you intend to comply with my requests then?”

O dear god…

“Yes, Sir.”

He leans in closer, his warm breath calling your quim to riot. “And do you belong to me tonight?”

“Yes, Lord Langdon.”

Langdon takes a moment and closes his eyes, as revelling in the dark euphoria of your consent.

“My appetites are not like those of other men,” he warns.

“I am not acquainted with the appetites of other men, Lord Langdon. Perhaps that is just as well.”

He looks at you as though you have shot him in the stomach. But in a good way.

“Ms. Y/n, listen very carefully, and do exactly as I say,” he says, rising from his position and seeming to fill the entire, fire lit room with his verticality. “I want you to stand up and take off your robe.”

Her face heats. The request is so simple. Though it feels impossible, you do it anyway. You are trembling a little as you stand, and vaguely aware of the cracking thunder that shakes the vaulted glass of the window. Lightning flickers on the wall before the hearth, and you time your nudity to the answering clap of thunder. Your robe falls dramtically to a crimson puddle on the floor, and Michael breathes like he is dying.

Heat and light swirl against the plane of your stomach, the backs of your knees, your legs, your breasts, the faithless little quim that has been drooling for the Duke all night. All of you is revealed to Michael Langdon’s ravening eyes and will yourself not to disintegrate (he would not like that. Or maybe, he would). Instinctively, your arms lift to cover that which is exposed, but Michael’s voice halts you in an instant.

“If you ever cover yourself in my presence again, Ms. Y/n, you will be gravely sorry.”

Your arms drop and you shiver as Langdon glides his warm finger down your shoulder and the curve of your back. He stops to appreciate your ass. You close your eyes at the ignominy of it. “You feel like silk,” he whispers, transfixed, in awe.

You gasp as his hand falls to the curve of your bottom, then lingers warmly at the cleft before tracing back up to your shoulder. “You are so utterly beautiful,” he says, eyes heavy lidded with a kind of slow, drugged rapture.

Though it is a sordid position to find one’s self in, there is a renegade part of your that dissolves like sugar in wine when Langdon speaks those words. Never, in all your life, have you been spoken to thus. Never have you felt that you were ever even regarded as a member of the female species (well, except for all the bad stuff; discrimination and the like). And here is this Duke, this GOD, this beautiful Devil who radiates power, crooning to you, calling you beautiful, pronouncing you soft to touch. You know you should not value such things. You know it should not make your chest feel as though it is full of golden, jingling bells…

Langdon does not like you, you remind yourself. He takes every opportunity he can of letting now how repugnant he thinks you are. This is only a game of power. After all, here you are, standing in HIS house, at HIS inspection, naked while he is clothed.

“The first time I saw you,” Langdon breathes, bringing his mouth to brush against your ear, then laying a slow kiss at your temple. “I was beside myself with impotent rage. I felt my hands close into fists. I was so full of hatred.”

You feel tears prickle.

“You were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen,” breathes Michael, as though the confession is torn from him and every word is agony. 

You hear yourself let out an unwilling little sob as tear falls from your face to floor.

He must be lying. No, worse: he is mocking you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. It would be so much easier if the Duke just DID THE DEED and did not subject you to THIS. You would lie down for him. You would let him crawl over you and rut. You do not have to be laughed at on top of everything else…

Michael brings a gentle hand to your cheek, finding wetness there, he whispers, “What is this?”

“I agreed to be your vassal on this night, Lord Langdon,” you answer, wiping your face with your hands and regaining your lost composure. “But I should not have to be tormented thus. I should not be ridiculed.”

Michael looks a you as though he is struggling to comprehend. “RIDICULED?”

You look down at your toes. “You are mocking me. As though you had not triumphed already, earlier, when you made me feel as though I would die if you didn’t kiss me.” You are slightly surprised by the honesty that tumbles out of you. But why shouldn’t you say it? It is not as if you have any dignity left now…

Langdon takes your shoulders firmly in his hands and brings you close to him, none too gently. “You do not believe me?” he asks, in a voice as laced with desperation as it is with menace. “You do not believe that you are beautiful?”

You say nothing, just stare at him and lift your head up in bare faced (and bare assed) defiance.

“You have no trust Ms. Y/n…” he breathes. “You must be taught a lesson.”

That gives you pause.

Your heart barely has time to beat its wild cadence at the base of your throat before Langdon reaches into his breast pocket to retrieve something- it is a kind of rope. A soft looking, black, silk tie not longer than the length from your elbow to the tips of your fingers.

“Hold out your arms,” he commands.

Your arms obey. Langdon takes them and brings them together at the wrists, then proceeds to bind them in an intricate knot with the black tie.

“Is it too tight?”

You shake your head, perplexed. “W-what are you doing, Lord Langdon?”

Is this the stage in the evening what the fun ends and the beating begins? Your blood surges at the realization that you have now been rendered even more helpless.

“You are a pig-headed little girl, Ms. Y/n.” says Langdon calmly.

“NO I’M NOT!”

“Silence,” he commands. “I am your Master in this room and you will obey me. Go to the bed now.”

Burning with humiliation, you have no recourse but to cross the room and sit on the enormous snake bed. Langdon follows, slowly.

“Spread your legs,” he says.

You shut your eyes and obey, praying he will not see the wetness that is surely seeping there, and the way your quim paints itself every time he speaks to you…

“Wider.”

You oblige.

“Yes….” He breathes. You open your eyes and stun to see the way the Duke is staring at your cunt. He approaches, transfixed, attentive as a starving wolf stalking his prey. The bed dips when he sits beside you.

“Are you aware,” the Duke says in a low whisper, as his head dips to place an open-mouthed kiss to the base of your throat, “that your little quim is watering for me?”

Your head whips round to stare at him. You cannot believe that he just said what he said. Langdon lets out a rumbling laugh. “Did you think you could hide such a thing, Ms. Y/n?” He bends down again, lower this time, until his lips graze the pebbled tip of your breast. “I can smell it too,” he taunts. Langdon brings a large, warm hand to heft your breast. You look down and gasp to see his plush mouth close against the tip. Your eyes roll back as his tongue hardens over the button of flesh and he sucks, pulling it in. It is half agony. Half divinity. Your quim pulses with every warm pull at your tit.

How is this happening?

How is any of this real?

A roll of thunder fills the room. The hearth fire flickers.

You are jolted.

Langdon comes up from your breast. “Don’t be afraid, Ms. Y/n,” he croons.

HA! As if you could be frightened of a rain storm! As if you were some clueless cave dwelling ancestor who cowered at the sight of lightning… “I’m not afraid of thunderstorms!” you say, childishly.

“I wasn’t talking about the storm,” Langdon says, amusement flaring in his turquoise eyes. 

You frown at him. “I am not frightened of bodily mechanics either.”

This only makes him chuckle, a low, pleased sound you feel in your belly.

“Lie back, then,” he commands.

You hobble awkwardly up the bed. Without the benefit of arms, your bottom must wiggle for traction, which only serves to amuse Langdon.

When you are horizontal, the Duke produces another, longer rope from his breast pocket. Wordlessly, he attaches the end of the new rope to the knot at your wrist and pulls the length of it up to a hook protruding from a carved vine on the headboard. When you attempt to pull you arms up, you find them attached securely above you.

“Are you comfortable?”

You nod.

“Still not frightened?” he asks, a wolfish grin playing on his lips.

“No.”

But between you and you, you ARE frightened. You are frightened by Langdon’s ‘command’ voice and the visceral effect it has on you. You are frightened by the waves of authority that emanate from him like heat from a hearthstone. You are frightened by your theory (which is bolstered by mounting evidence) that Lord Langdon LIKES pain, namely that he likes to inflict it on YOU. You are frightened by the fact that your hands are bound, and your cunt is dripping all over his fine silk sheets. You are frightened of the anticipation beating in your veins. You are frightened by the arousing effect your fear seems to have on the Duke, even as he whispers to you not to be afraid.

You lie back on a sumptuous pile of pillows by the headboard and stare up at the pattern woven into the bed canopy.

“Those are the Pleiades,” you say, stupidly, as Langdon poises himself over your naked body and begins to lavish open mouthed kisses all over your shoulders collarbone. You stare at the cluster of stars that are named after seven sisters, the daughters of Atlas, who held up the earth on his great, sinewy back, and Pleione, the oceanic nymph who protected sailors. As Langdon moves his hot, branding mouth lower, across your ribs and toward your navel, you will yourself to remain unmoved by attempting to recall all of their names.

Maia…

You jerk up as he rolls your nipples between his tyrannical fingers. The pain sends corresponding pleasure down to your core, and you cannot help but writhe and thrash like a netted mermaid. Langdon is sucking a mark on your forearm. O GOD… Why does something so awful feel this good?

Electra…

Alcyone…

You gasp when Langdon licks a stripe from your navel to your pelvis. Just how low is he intending to take these ministrations, you find yourself wondering. Your heart stops when you look down and find lagoon coloured eyes burning into yours.

You never do manage to remember the other four sisters.

“Spread your legs,” commands Langdon.

You do. He lowers himself and nestles down to where your legs are parted. It is almost more than you can bare, in all honesty, to see his beautiful head there, poised before the most intimate part of you. Your cheeks are singed with shame.

Langdon stares at you, then down at your quim. He inhales, then sighs. The expression on his face would suggest that he regards the pocket of flesh before him as the richest, most mesmerizing treasure in the whole of the universe. He makes a strangled sound, then whispers, “Perfection.”

When Langdon looks up, you are stunned by the plaintive intimacy of his expression. He holds your gaze for a deliberately long time. “Breathe,” he commands.

You do. You take in air and are accosted by the smells of the room: beeswax candles, the wood hearth, mint, your own mortifying arousal and the hint of something deep and male.

“Good girl.”

It might be better, you think, if he did not offer your praise. Rutting you could live with. Low, humming praise that makes you want to do anything to incur the like again: that is going to break you.

 Langdon’s brain meltingly competent hands are trailing up and down your thighs, grounding you, pinning you to the moment when all your spirit would like to do is fly away.

The most total, terrible bliss you have ever known floods your body as Langdon brings a finger to trail lightly over the folds your slick quim. He brings his other hand there and cups it experimentally, wringing from you an astonished sigh. You are positively drenched, you know.

“So wet…” he marvels. He keeps his hands there. And you have a torturous time trying to stop yourself from bucking into his touch. Langdon looks utterly transported as he brings his thumbs to part your labia. You look down at him in shock. He circles his thumbs gently. Part of you wonders what he could possibly be doing, lingering in this position, especially seeing as his trousers are still very much on. Another part is desperately trying, and failing, to stave off rocking into him. “You are very eager, my beautiful pet,” he croons. “I am very pleased.”

You should take issue with his verbiage. You should not care that the Duke is PLEASED by your descent into licentiousness. You should not want to please him. You should not want him to call you ‘pet’.

But there are a great many transgressions taking place here, all at once. Better to let them all dissolve into one vast, undifferentiated ocean, and worry about it later.

You whimper as the Duke’s red, pointed tongue swipes your core, and lingers to circle the feminine pearl which you have found, over the course of self exploration, is very important indeed. You moan as Langdon sucks the bud into his mouth, flattening it with his tongue, licking all around, gorging on you as though he is attending the final feast, on the final day of his worldly existence. You spasm in pleasure, and grind your quim on his face. Who would ever have thought that a tongue so viciously cruel could be so astonishingly good at THIS? Langdon sucks loudly, and you would die of the sound were it not for the fact that ecstasy has death-proofed you. Thank heaven that your arms are bound! If they were not, you would be sorely tempted to take his golden head and pull him into you. 

Then, Langdon does an unforgivable thing. He pulls away.

Raising himself to sit up, the Duke begins to work the buttons of his raven black overcoat. You bite your lips with your teeth to keep yourself from asking why he has stopped. Langdon pulls off his jacket. Then the immaculate white shirt beneath it, and the sight you are met with leaves you incoherent. Looming over you is a pagan god, haloed in firelight. His lips and jaw shine with the juices of your greedy cunt. He is lean and well muscled, and looking at you with such unbridled hunger and dominance that you can barely form the sound of his name.

“You want me to lick your cunt again, angel?” The sound of his voice makes you gush.

You thrash and nod.

“Tell me,” Langdon commands.

“Y-yes, I want it…”

He laughs demonically. “I need to hear you say it, otherwise…”

“I WANT YOU TO LICK MY CUNT!”

Langdon returns to his post immediately. He rubs you with his fingers and watches your face. “Do you know what is coming, now, darling?”

Somewhere in the addled recesses of your brain, the word ‘darling’ raises and collapses.

“I have cum before,” you admit, turning your flaming face into the pillow.

For a moment, Langdon looks as though the words have melted his sternum. “You touch yourself?”

You burrow further into the pillow.

“LOOK AT ME,” warns Langdon.

You turn to face him. “Y-yes. I have explored.”

“Wicked girl,” groans Langdon, and his eyes are the hungriest you’ve seen yet. “Would you like to cum now? On my tongue?” It is half plea, half taunt.

“OBVIOUSLY!”

Langdon lowers his face and moans like an animal into your drenched quim. It is as though he is sucking your soul out, along with the nectar of your core. You are momentarily shocked by the intrusion of two long fingers. You gasp, and Langdon looks up, brow furrowed. “Does it hurt?” he asks, with all the control he can muster in his addled state.  

“It doesn’t,” you say. “I just haven’t. I don’t put…”

Langdon nods his understanding, but you can tell the confession enflames him. His fingers move within you slowly, insistently, expertly, as he sucks your clit rhythmically, over and over into his warm, velvet mouth.

You are edging closer. So close that it hurts. And yet, you know -HOW DO YOU KNOW?-, instinctively, that it would be a very good idea, that Langdon would find it intoxicating… if you asked.

“Can I…”

“MAY I?” he corrects between mouthfuls of bursting quim.

“May I c-cum, Lord Langdon?”

He stops to ‘consider’, but he is still touching you. Langdon savors your waning endurance, just as he savors your fear that he might be the sort of monster who withholds a lady’s pleasure.

“I don’t know…” he says, arching an eyebrow, and propping his head up on one elbow as he plays in your cunt with his fingers. He stops once or twice, just to lick them clean.

“PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE, LORD LANGDON.”

“All right, you insubordinate little chit,” he says. “I’ll let you cum, but only on one condition.”

O FUCK. What if he demands five more nights? What if he asks you to become a legitimate ‘nun’ at the next Brimstone Society Revel? What if he asks you to bring him scores of Coco’s stockings?

“What?” you ask, trembling and bucking your hips up toward him. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

He smiles and tickles your cunt with his chin as he says, “Call me Michael.”

“Fine, MICHAEL!”

And with Michael’s magic name, the siege upon your quim is taken up again. He slides his hands down to your calves and lifts them, lowering himself and hooking your knees over his shoulders. You lie back and let out a moan of relief as Michael buries his face into you, vibrating with loud, unrestrained bliss as he sucks at the pearl of your clit. His nimble fingers open you, then dip in and curl devastatingly. Your back arches sharply off the surface of the bed and thrash wildly, rubbing yourself upward as he drinks and drinks, and watches awe struck, at the terrifying miracle taking place on his bed.

The world splinters out of existence as you scream and spend. It remains, non-existent for some time. You remember details of the aftermath only later: Michael untying your arms and massaging the blood back into them. Michael cradling your weary body against his as you sprawl lamely on the bed. Michael drawing circles over the skin between your shoulder blades, then slinging an arm over your side as you pass into scattered, shallow sleep. Vaguely thinking: ‘O wait, I have not been ruined yet…’

“Michael?” you say, somewhere during a spell of half wake-fulness.

“Yes,” he mumbles into your neck, drifting toward slumber himself.

“Why did you step on me, the time we met?” 

You hear a pregnant groan. Michael pauses for a long time, so long, I fact, that you begin to suspect he might be asleep. “Because I was frightened senseless,” he says at last. The arm at your waist pulls you snugger to him.

“Frightened?” you ask, unable to let the matter go. “How could you be?”

Michael’s sigh is a warm, wet sound at your neck. “I told you earlier. But you accused me of lying. You were the most beautiful human being I had ever seen.”

You are glad that your back is to Michael and he cannot see how deeply you blush. “So, you stepped on me?”

“It seemed like the sensible thing to do at the time.”

You ponder the ridiculousness of this for a few moments before sleep claims you once more.

When you wake, perhaps an hour later, Michael’s pale eyes are staring at you, catlike in the ochre tinged light.

When you are facing one another, your heads resting on elbows on opposite pillows, he asks, “Do you regret the things we did tonight?”

“No,” you answer. You know that this warm, sleepy circle of intimacy is false. Soon, you will rise from this bed and be enemies once more. If, that is, you ever stopped being enemies at all.

But you do not- could not- regret what has passed.

“Why not?” says Michael, frowning.

You turn to lie on your back and gaze at the woven Pleiades. You are unable to meet his beautiful, terrible eyes, as you whisper the truth. “I am glad I am getting the chance to experience it.”

You hear a sharp intake of breath at your side. “Experience what?”

“THAT,” you say, “the intimacy. With another person.” You are very careful not to say specifically, ‘with you’.

Michael sounds displeased. “You would have, in the sanctity of marriage, though admittedly not with anyone as good at it as me.”

You feel yourself smile at his arrogance. “I do not think I would have, Michael.”

“Why not?”

You sigh. What use is there in hiding the truth that ought to be so painfully obvious, especially to someone as calculating as him? “My impoverished state, as well as my late Fathers… eccentricities preclude me from marriage. I am, in every way, an undesirable match. Aren’t you always reminding me of that, Michael?” You make yourself look at him, perhaps out of aggression. Because it has hurt. And it is hurting again. Even the beautiful memory of what he did to you on this bed is beginning to hurt. 

Something violent unfurls behind aquamarine eyes. You are stunned to recognize that Michael is angry. But is it at you, or on your behalf?  “Fools...” he mutters almost inaudibly.

“What was that?” you ask, needing to be sure. “I am sorry, Michael, I thought you just called the men of the ton who would avoid marriage with me- for entirely wise and practical reasons- ‘fools’.”

It is Michael’s turn to turn bright red. He bolts from the bed, realizing how he has betrayed himself. But he recovers himself quickly. “Fools,” he says, running a hand through his loose, shining hair. “I DID call them fools. Because everyone knows that penniless whores make the best wives. It is the experience level. And the gratitude.”

Your blood runs cold. You feel yourself rise from the bed.

You won’t cry. Not this time.

You walk, bare assed naked and not giving one damn, to the walking dress, stockings, stays and boots that you left to dry by the fire.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” demands Michael.

“Back to Cordelia’s,” you say, lifting the dress and finding it still significantly damp.

“You are not going anywhere,” he says. “I am not done with you, yet. The first night is not over until I say it is.”

You peel the wet fabric apart and look at him. “Why? Do you wish to make me into one of those marriageable whores that you spoke of?”

If your solitary life in the countryside with your scientist Papa had not furnished you with incomparable skills of observation, you would miss it- the painful regret that glimmers in his eyes before shuttering again.

“Perhaps I do,” Michael says, covering another spasm of contrition. He is really quite OBVIOUS, you are beginning to think.

“Perhaps,” you say, “you can equip me with some of these bawdy skills and I can set my cap on Lord Chesterton…”

It is the most calculated blow that you have ever administered. And it succeeds flawlessly in hitting its mark.

Perhaps, you think, as Michael strides toward you and levels you with a look of such lust-filled intention that it makes the events of the past few hours resemble mere hand holding, it has hit TOO well.

What, in the name of hell, are you in for now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG SORRY FOR THE WAIT! I am just within the last hour of the deadline I set for myself (in my time zone)  
> I am so deeply appreciative of anyone that takes the time t read this mess, and/or extends their thoughts. You have no idea what exhilarating joy I feel when you extend your time and readership! So much love and gratitude to you!  
> The waltz may be your gramma’s fave, but back in regency times it was a piping hot scandalous dance! 
> 
> Ok, so you know when these two hot ass nerds sit by the fire and discuss the German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer? They are referring to ideas found in his book ‘On the Basis of Morality’ which, I found out later, was actually written a bit late for them to be talking about it in this fic. SO, SUE ME!!! I can’t do math. I hope the timeline disrespect/incompetence on my part does not put everyone off!  
> Laudanum was a really popular (and destructive) drug that some Regency Era people used. They also TOTALLY had ‘nitrous oxide parties’ where they would get together and huff into some bags and get high.  
> Tycho Brahe and Johannes Kepler OWNED planetary motion. I hope I got the details somewhat right, aka, NOT PAINFULLY WRONG (sorry, Mr. Dax).  
> Epicurus really did have a cool school at a garden, though today we mostly associate him (erroneously) with ‘hedonism’.  
> Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi was a bad ass Persian scholar who helped discover algebra and stuff.  
> The smut of the first night is not over btw........  
> we shall open the next chap in medias res!!!


	5. Chapter 5

 “The chains and the silence, which should have bound her deep within herself, which should have smothered her, strangled her, on the contrary freed her from herself.”

― Pauline Réage, Story of O

………………………………………..

Michael hears you speak the name ‘Chesterton’ and the world turns the colour of opened veins.

Earlier this evening, when you trembled in a way that made his insides twist, Michael gave you a mug of hot tea with brandy. You proceeded to drink from that mug with such succor that it made him want to smash it into the fire for not being HIM. Michael had wanted to murder A BEVERAGE.

A beverage.

AND NOW YOU TALK OF 'SETTING YOUR CAP' ON CHESTERTON?

CHESTERTON!

Michael’s blood drums in his ears. He lets out a burst of air he did not realize his lungs were holding. A raging erection pulses painfully in his britches. You stand before him, naked and blazing with firelight.

…And you speak of CHESTERTON?

Michael realizes now how grave an error has been made. He has never before felt this defenceless; not when he had been unable to stop Missy Collins from taking the beatings his Father ordered because she ‘coddled the little Lord’; not when Michael watched Leo squeeze life from the body of his favorite pup, because he had let the animal sleep in his bed; not when Isabella Darwood called him ‘a pleasant enough diversion’. No. NOTHING compares to this.

His obsession.

Your resistance.

You opened for Michael like a wild orchid to moonlight. He ran mad. He saw god when you spent under his tongue. Your passion is a revelation. Against it, all sexual experiences past (and likely future) are rendered a gray void. 

And really, what did Michael THINK was going to happen? That he would not melt like a pathetic, man-shaped waxwork at the heat of your pleasure? That he would drink from your cunt and not be transformed from ‘person’ to ‘machine that thirsts’. That he would steal into that wet paradise and come away unmoved and unpunished?

To begin with, Michael had not intended to claim his first night this early. It was supposed to have occurred later.

Later, so as to allow time for you to marinate in dread and defeat (No, he is not a good man. But then again, has never pretended).

Later, so as to grant him time to fortify himself against the ravages of the experience.

If he were strong enough, Michael would limit himself to one night per decade. He would expire in your arms, fifty years from now, a frail old man on night the fifth.

If only Michael had been able to resist! If he had not reacted like a stunned, jealous animal, he might have spared himself the knowledge that it is too terrible to be borne:

You are his erotic match.

You are the consummation of every carnal gesture he has ever lived.

You are the one that Michael Langdon was born to fuck.

YOU. Cordelia’s most troublesome virgin, upon whom he has inflicted naught but insult and woe.

The sight of your glistening cunt across the room makes him light headed. The scent of your arousal permeates the air like nitrous oxide. It forces Michael to remember the sounds you made when he was devouring you… He will hear that incoherent litany until the hour of his death. You screamed for him. And groaned. You ASKED for his horrible, defiling tongue. You twisted upon the amber bed like something caught. So passionate. So alive. The prim bluestocking who never pins up her train at parties is the most sensuous creature that the sun has ever shone upon.

Michael cannot touch you without feeling himself be touched a thousand-fold. He cannot look at you without seeing, like Narcissus reflected in the pool, another shackled, longing self. The heart that he has kept neglected and starved in the deepest dungeon of his being- which was never taught sound or speech or letter- knows your name and screams it. Michael thought to seduce you, but- HA!- here he stands, trembling with the violence of his own desire.

He hates you, he thinks, as his cock weeps for you, as he fights through the fog and fever to contemplate his place upon the chessboard.

Despite his most vicious efforts, your dignity is like the tiny heart inside a sparrow, beating and beating behind soft tissue and hollow bone. And though, Michael wishes for death, he also wants to pin you to the ground and do it to you all over again. He wants to tongue and suck those nipples into eternity. He wants to lap at that quim until he drowns in it. He is on the teetering edge of sanity...

AND YOU SPEAK OF CHESTERTON?

It is the worst punishment Michael could ever endure. He must respond in kind.

“You ill bred, shameless little slut,” he breathes.

The sensation of hearing those words is visceral. If the Duke had slapped you, it could hardly have been worse. Tears are welling up in your eyes, but you will them put. “I-I am leaving,” you whisper. You open the bottom of your dress and raise it over your head. “I have no need of your coach, Sir. I will walk back to Cordelia’s.”

Though there is no longer thunder, the steady cadence of rain patters against the window. 

“You will do no such thing,” bites out Michael. 

“You will keep me here against my will?” you ask, with mounting alarm.

“Not at all, Ms. Y/n. Go or stay, it is of no consequence to me. However, breaking your promise will be of great consequence to YOU.”

You stop fussing with your dress and glare at him. Michael takes a few languid steps toward you. “Renege on our deal, Ms. Y/n, and you will find yourself in a predicament far worse than the one that brought you to this chamber.”

Your mouth falls open.

Michael makes a scornful sound. “Have you already forgotten the conditions of our arrangement?” he asks, seeming to glory in your rising panic.

You clutch your dress over your nakedness.

“Uncover yourself at once.”

The command is deep and harsh.

What have you done to incur such treatment? You squeeze your eyes shut and allow the sodden dress in your hands fall to the floor with an inelegant plop. If you take a further step back, you are liable to fall backwards into the fireplace, which would surely be no more incinerating than what Michael’s pale eyes are promising now.

“Look at me,” says Michael more softly. You find yourself complying instantly. The heat of the fire kisses your back. Your breath falters to see Michael staring at you with rivetted fascination.

“You agreed to be mine tonight, did you not, Ms. Y/n?”

His voice is a soft hum of menace that turns you cork-brained with lust.

“I believe I asked you a question.”

“Y-yes, Sir.”

“To be anything other than mine would constitute a breach of promise, one for which you would be obliged to pay DEARLY.”

Your quim pulses, even as you tremble with fury. “You are a monster…”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I-I don’t understand you at all… I don’t understand why you are doing this…” Your voice cracks. Michael, the man who cradled your body against his in sleep only minutes ago, remains unmoved.

“When we are together in this room,” he says, deadly serious, “your actions are my prerogative. You do not dictate to me. If I wish for you to lick the soles of my hessians, Miss. Y/n, you DO it. If I wish to play in your dripping cunt until dawn, you LET me. Do you understand?” 

You have never heard anyone speak like this before. The sheer obscenity makes you cringe. He is taking your life in his hands and cutting it up. You entered this house a modest young lady. You shall leave it a ‘Demimondaine’. Because of Michael, you shall belong, forever, to the ‘half world’. “Yes, Sir,” you say. “I understand perfectly.”

“Good.”

Your mouth is dry. Michael is not wearing a shirt. His chorded muscles gleam like polished ivory. There are places you can see outlines of veins, a faint reminder of humanity. His hair falls around his head in waves and coils of spun gold. He looks so totally powerful that it makes you dizzy. You would allow him anything, you realize with a sudden heart squeeze of shame. In this particular moment, you would obey any command simply to be touched by him again. You imagine yourself prostrate, swiping your tongue along the filthy bottom of his shoe. You imagine the yellow light of dawn filling the room as Michael’s fingers explore your pussy. You give your head a firm shake, as if that could oust the madness.

“You are hoping that I will touch that quim again, aren’t you?” he says, reading your thoughts. Your cheeks flame. Can it be that you are that legible to him? Have your months learning the delicate art of female rebellion from Lady Cordelia taught you nothing?

Michael is, you realize, waiting for an answer. It occurs to you to lie. It does. To admit to the spreading, aching need in your woman’s parts would be mortifying. But to speak untruths to him… in this moment… is impossible.

“Admit it, you impertinent little slut,” coaxes Michael, his own voice hot and breathy.

It is wrong. So wrong. But, with every word he utters, the pulse between your legs grows stronger and heavier. Desire lances like a blade.

Why?

Why do you want to comply?

Why do you want to feel this mad, bad man’s hands all over you? And IN you?

How is it possible that a person can make you feel the most overwhelming pleasure you have ever known and then, shortly after, attempt to annihilate you with words? Michael buried his tongue into your quim and ATE like a man starved. He called you the ‘most beautiful human being’ that he had ever seen, then dismissed you as an impoverished light-skirt.

Yet, there is a knowing voice inside you that whispers: every cruel thing that Michael Langdon utters is, in its way, a little scream of pain. Your heart should not swell for him. But it is too late. The seed of empathy you felt for him before has burst into a sapling, and is growing taller by the moment, furious to cover the sky with its branches.

“Y-yes,” you admit. “But I still hate you.” 

“You should.” And for a moment, there is a glimmer of something ravening in Michael’s stare.

He is rather transparent, ironically enough. You can see the moment that he lays upon himself the cold bands of control that you sense are holding back an inferno. “Hate all you want, chit. But I smell your arousal even standing here.”

All your blood seems to surge toward the traitorous dampness between your legs.

Some rational, scientific stratum of your brain recognizes that it makes perfect sense for it to have felt good when Michael touched you. After all, nature must nudge even the most bashful creatures toward reproduction. But does that explain why you would present the most private part of yourself to be licked and bitten, and why you are now, hoping it will happen again?

“Look at me,” Michael orders.

You do.

“You want to come again, don’t you, you greedy little wanton?”

Why deny it? Whom would it benefit? It is not as if he is poised to let you go…

“Yes,” you say, then, disguise your voice with detached scholarliness. “It felt good, Michael. There is an empirical reason for its having felt good. I am shackled to you for five nights. Those five nights will likely be the only in my life that I am alone with a man. Why should I fritter them away?”

Michael’s eyes turn unfathomably dark for a moment. He closes the distance between you with the quick, liquid grace of a predator. “Are you hoping that there will be shackles?”

Your knees nearly buckle. “N-no, Sir!” you say. “I am merely saying that-”

“You want to be touched by me, Ms. Y/n,” Michael says with a snarl. “But wish to frame your own lasciviousness as a kind of scientific experiment.”

Your cheeks burn. He is not wrong, you think. You are not Antoine Lavoisier isolating oxygen. You are a ‘fallen woman’, in the midst of falling. 

Michael leans forward, and you think-nay HOPE- that he might plant a kiss upon your lips.

“If you ache to be touched,” he whispers, “all you need do is ask.”

“I hate you so much…”

“Yes, I know,” says Michael almost cheerfully. “I hate you too. Mutual hatred. Now ask.”

Michael’s smell and warmth so close makes you delirious. You are going to destroy him, you vow, AFTER this. You are going to burrow into his trust- or his good graces- or SOMETHING- and you are going to uncover proof of every vile thing he has ever orchestrated. There will be justice for Cordelia’s husband. There will be justice for each and every life the Brimstone Society has ever pissed on…

“T-touch me again, Michael…” you ask. It is half speech, half air. Your own voice is a stranger. 

Michael’s lips are soft and pink and if you were bold and presumptuous enough, you could lean in and-

“No.” The word is crooned against the curve of your cheek. Your eyes flutter open to catch the smug victory painted on his face. “You deserve no such thing.”

It is like receiving a kick to the stomach from a goat that is bounding away. You gape at him.

“Little girls who taunt and tease their Masters, who speak of CHESTERTON, do not deserve to come,” says Michael, by way of explanation.

Chesterton? What has HE to do with this? Why should you be made to think of HIM? What is the relevance of anything that is not the man before you now, who makes you liquid with wanting him?

With a last withering glance, Michael turns and walks away. He is halfway across the room before your frayed senses can gather themselves.

You stand there, flushed and sweaty from the fire, probably looking horribly dishevelled.

“Are you dismissing me now?” you ask. It is absurd, of course. Minutes ago, you were determined to leave. Now, your mind is occupied only by what it will take for him to let you stay.

Michael arches one eyebrow. “Did I say anything about dismissing you?”

You feel your shoulders slacken (dear god, is it… RELEIF?). “No. I simply thought-”

“Don’t. Think,” The thrum of the impossible order reduces you to a cowering mass.

There passes an eternity of silence. Michael watches you. He is a creature leased from hell, but it feels like holiness to be the object of his undivided concentration.

When at last Michael’s voice pierces the air, it is laced with reproach. “I have generously afforded you the opportunity to save yourself and your friends from ruin. And how have you thanked me, Ms. Y/n?”

For a moment, you wonder if the question is rhetorical.

“Well?” asks Michael expectantly.

Outrage bubbles up around your heart. “THANKED you?”

Michael gives his head a single nod.

“YOU are the one threatening us!” you fume. “You have ‘afforded’ nothing. I came here tonight, as per your request, and I am willing to subject myself to your…attentions, Michael. But let us not pretend that you are any kind of saviour.”

“You did not seem to mind being ‘subjected’ to my attentions earlier, when you were coming all over my face.”

Michael’s chest swells visibly at the sight of your agitation. He shakes his head with disapproval. “You stole into my house in London,” he says. “You willfully placed yourself and your chuck headed friend in danger. You bore witness to orgies. You took pleasure in watching-”

You open your mouth to protest but the words die in your throat when Michael sears you with a warning look.

“Do. Not. Lie, Ms. Y/n. It titillated you to witness strangers rutting in your midst.” Michael’s exquisite face flares with something dangerous. “But it could have ended VERY badly for you. The price you are paying for poking your nose into matters and activities that are none of your concern, is far more lenient than I might have demanded.”

In a way, he is right. In a way, you ought to feel ashamed. Your rash actions endangered Coco and the Coven. You still have not forgiven yourself. Likely, you never will.

Michael circles round the bed to a large, black settee, then drops to sit upon it in an elegant motion. “You are a willful, disrespectful little imp, Ms. Y/n,” he pronounces. “You are thoughtless, and rude. You have no compunction for your mistakes, and, what is worse, no deference for your betters.”

HE IS NOT YOUR BETTER, HE IS A MURDERER! You are about to open your mouth and rail, when Michael says something which stops the course of your blood entirely:

“You are in need of discipline, Ms. Y/n. Come here and lie across my lap.” 

Eons compress into one lone note of silence.

“I do not enjoy repeating my instructions to you, Ms. Y/n,” says Michael with ominous silk. “I was under the impression that you understood the rules. When I tell you to do something, you comply.”

You must be in a dream world, you think, as your wobbly feet deliver you across the room. When you come to stand before him, you freeze.

“Go ahead,” Michael murmurs, gesturing to the widened stance of his thighs. “Drape yourself across. Bottom up.”

Your heart turns in your chest.

You are cognizant of Michael’s own sharp intake of breath as your body sinks to make contact with his. You are stark naked and lying- ass up- across the groin your embittered enemy. His britches are hot over firm thigh muscles. Your cheek, arms and legs dangle to touch the satin of the settee. The position is awkward, and you are alarmed when Michael scoops you closer, winding a strong, possessive arm round your waist and pinning you to him. 

You have never known such ignominy in all your life. You breathe in great, disbelieving draughts of air. One of Michael’s hands trails up to touch your ass, warm fingers softly grazing the curve, then lifting again. You squirm and struggle against him, but are halted when one large, beringed hand strikes down hard upon your backside.

*SLAP*

The impact sends shock waves through you.

“OWWW!”

*SLAP*

Another blow falls, placed elsewhere on your bottom this time, but no less stinging.

It is only then that your consciousness is flooded with an awareness of what is occurring: you are being spanked. You are being spanked, like a rebellious child, by the Duke of Langdon.

*SLAP*

You cry out again.

*SLAP*

DEAR LORD.

*SLAP*

*SLAP*

The blows are rhythmic. Relentless.

The sensation on your backside is- oddly enough- radiating sensations to your quim. The spanking hurts. And yet, with every slap, your treacherous cunt pools with arousal. The feeling is so overwhelming that it causes silent tears to fall.

*SLAP*

Your anger and indignation begin to fall away. What remains is a warm, vast, spreading, grateful void. Filling that void is only pain and pleasure. Before you are even aware of it, you are lifting slightly with every blow, grinding your cunt against Michael’s knee.

*SLAP*

Soon you are sobbing. He can hear you, you know. But he does not stop. Nor do you wish it.

You are not sure if it is the pain, the degradation, how much you love it, or the ungodly mixture of all three it that is causing you to sob.

When next Michael’s hand comes down, you cannot help angling upward, offering your drenched labia to his punishment. You feel him stiffen against you.

*SLAP*

Another blow falls, but it is slightly less forceful, and aimed at your cunt. There is, to your mortification, a distinctly wet and squelching sound.

*SLAP*

You hump Michael’s leg shamelessly. Evidently, the pain of the spanking has purged you of the ability to resist debasing yourself. Either that, or it simply feels too good to do otherwise. You moan into the settee.

When at last Michael speaks, his voice is altered by his exertion. “Look at this…” he observes, as if disapproving. “You are AROUSED by your punishment.”

*SLAP*

You are a veritable fountain now, soiling Michael’s britches with your boundless excretions. You bring your arms down your body and are stunned to discover Michael’s iron hard erection pressing into you.

O.

He notices you discovering.

His breathing is ragged.   

There is an eternity between strokes.

*SLAP*

*SLAP*

You let go, crying out in pain and fury and bliss. Some blows fall to your ass, but increasingly more on your quim. Each one pulls sensation toward that brilliant little button Michael played with earlier. 

*SLAP*

“Yes…” breathes Michael. “Such a hot, perfect little quim…”

*SLAP*

White hot, star sparkling sensation erupts in your core. The feeling is more than euphoria. It is more than the realization of the futility of rebellion; it is more even than the rage of recognizing that Michael’s power over you is inevitable, prewritten as the path of an orbit; beneath the smart of humiliation, there is joy. Pure lightness and joy. And freedom. The freedom to let go and melt into the enormity of him, like single grain of salt dropped into an ocean. How pleasurable to dissolve… Like being absolved. Like being emptied of all the burdens of being human, yet still breathing, and FEELING.

O god. The feeling…

“I offered you reprieve from a cataclysmic fate, Ms. Y/n,” says Michael, his voice throaty and battered, “and you have yet to show your gratitude.” It sounds as though he too is on the brink of some abyss.

*SLAP*

Michael’s fingers trail across your wet folds this time and settle there for a moment. He probes your impossibly wet cunt and groans his response.

“So wet…” he breathes. And it sounds more like wonder than admonishment. “You like this very much, don’t you?”

Your cunt swallows his fingers.

“Answer me,” he commands.

Answers… Words… You try to remember what those things are...

*SLAP*

“GOD YES!!” you scream.

In the periphery of your awareness, Michael’s cock is twitching against your ribs. You hear a strangled, intake of breath as he bears witness to your tongue darting our thoughtlessly to lick against the fabric of his thigh. The sensuality of the gesture seems to fracture him. He turns away momentarily, as though in fright.

*SLAP*

*SLAP*

*SLAP*

Michael’s fingers melt into your cunt again. The whole area is alive with sensation, throbbing with the aftershocks of his blows. You grind into his hand desperately, humping against him like an animal in heat, as mewling noises escape your lips.

“That’s it, my precious girl,” croons Michael. “Fuck yourself on my fingers…” His thumb slides across that all-important nub of nerves. “If you could only see yourself.” He says this as though the sight of you physically pains him. He slips two fingers into your gushing channel, while his thumb circles skillfully against the nub. “You’re close,” he observes. Not an interrogative.

“Y-yes,” you agree, grinding against his plundering strokes. “P-please… I need to…”

“YESSSS, DO IT,” Michael hisses. It is a plea, you realize, strident but unmistakable. He is a straining mess himself and is begging you to come. He rubs harder, he sensation in your quim momentarily blinds your vision.

You ride his hand and scream against his lap as the shuddering force of your climax takes you. It is longer and more powerful than anything you have felt before. Put simply: it is transcendence. You tremble in its wake and whimper in the aftermath, clinging to his leg. “Michael…” you speak, as though it were a prayer of gratitude. “Michael…”

He pulls you up to sit in his lap such that your cheek falls against his bare shoulder, as in an embrace. Your breasts flatten against his warm chest. His heartbeat is there, as wild as your own. Against that rhythm, your bones melt out of existence.

The intimacy of the position rattles you a bit. Michael is stroking your back and hair, holding you to him. You are almost afraid to move lest it be disturbed. You are vaguely aware of the sticky mess at the apex of your thighs as you bring your legs to wrap around and hook behind him. Michael draws in a splintered breath of air when you press your naked quim against his straining erection. Moving infinitesimally back and forth, you hum at the sensation. You are drenching him, you realize. Womanly secretions are saturating his fine hewn fabric. The organ pulses in response, impossibly large and hard against your mons. ‘It is me,’ you think, ‘who has caused this.’

Michael Langdon is rich, beautiful and evil. The most vaulted members of the aristocracy are his marionettes. He speaks industries, battles and orgies into existence. He holds the lands and vassals of half the country ransom. He is the leader of the Brimstone Society. But YOU have done THIS.

This thick, twitching cock saddled against your cunt is your doing. 

You grind against him a little harder. The groan you wring from him slices the sound of the rain and hearth like a blade against butter.

Michael takes his hand and captures your chin. His crystalline eyes are full of urgent intensity. “You are such a filthy little girl,” he breathes, then pulls your mouth to his. You make a surprised sound and his tongue enters, hot and invading. You keep bucking against his astonishingly hard erection until he brings his long-fingered hands to your hips and forcibly stills your motions.

Michael is preternaturally strong, you think, as he ladles you in his arms, drops to lie on his back the full length of the settee, and slings you on top of him so that you are sitting against his groin.

This position is rather shocking. You are staring down into the Duke’s mad, glittering eyes, and sitting on his engorged, (albeit clothed) cock.

But ‘shocking’ swiftly turns into ‘intolerable’ when Michael grabs your hips and lifts you up his body so that your knees are planted against his shoulders and your quim is poised directly over his face.

“Spread yourself for me…” he rasps beneath you.

But your legs ARE spread, you think, as you awkwardly widen your stance.

“No, you daft girl,” Michael says, sounding breathlessly aroused and annoyed. “Spread your quim with your fingers and lower yourself to me.”

WHAT? The Duke of Langdon wants you to open your labia and squat over him like he is a chamber pot? How undignified! Why would he want you to do that? You are reminded of the fact that he DID seem to enjoy himself earlier, when he placed his mouth-

You do not complete the thought.

Michael cranes his neck and slowly laps at the centre of your quim with a wide, flattened tongue, much the same way he would, if he was licking dollops of custard off of a dessert spoon. It makes you gasp. “Do it,” he groans, between licks. The command vibrates against your flesh and your sense of decorum is kidnapped once more by pure need.

You lower your fingers, part your swollen folds, and feed Michael Langdon your quim.

The slurping and smacking noises he makes ought to kill you instantly. His mouth is urgent but undeniably skilled. Michael alternates between sucking your engorged pearl and laving it. When he senses that you are still hesitant to drop too heavily onto his face, he grabs your hips and impales you over his mouth, nose and chin. Moaning and sucking his appreciation, he quickens his pace. Pleasure radiates throughout your entire body. By the time he pushes two fingers into you, you are grinding against him and babbling incoherence. Climax spears you. You cry out, a reckless expression of rapture, an ode of to the world for having made you a woman, so that you might feel THIS.

But Michael does not relent. He waits only a few moments before fastening his mouth back to your quim, and pumping those two long, beringed digits in and out of you until you unravel all over again and scream his name like it is the only word you have ever known.

Some time later, Michael scoops you up again. You are in that warm, post-zenith haze you occupied after the first time he made you spend. This time, events dart in and out of your awareness like candle flies. Michael is passing a damp cloth over your collapsed body. Michael is feeding you water and apple cake. Michael is fluffing pillows and placing them beneath your head. His warm hands are gentle, as relentless in care as they were in torment. You cannot help but relax into his touch, into the relief of the moment.

“You ought to sleep a little,” he whispers.

The comfort you feel is inexpressible. Michael’s beautiful voice in the half darkness is like a soothing, personal talisman. He strokes hair from your damp face as though it were perfectly natural for such gestures to exist between you.

You lie back against the pillows and gaze at the man -the ENEMY- whose touch has made you airborne. The turquoise depths of his eyes ebb with the unknowable. Beneath them, his cheek is marred by dark smudges of fatigue. There is no cruelty in his expression now. But who knows how long that spell will last?

You know that the quavering joy you feel when Michael slips beneath the blankets to lie next you, is misbegotten. But still your heart surges when he slings his arm over your hip and pulls you closer. 

Soon, the Duke will be the Duke again. Everything human will be subsumed. The kraken will reach for you with its murdering tentacles. But for now…

“You really should sleep a little now,” Michael repeats. “We have an hour before you must return to Lady Goode’s.”

You are so dazed that you barely registered how near dawn it is. After a ball, Coco, Madison, Queenie and company are liable to loll in bed past noon. Still, you should not like to be spotted stepping out of Michael’s coach by a gardener or gossiping maid.

Though you have said nothing, Michael feels your tension increase. “You will not be seen,” he promises. “Rest, and I will wake you at the appropriate time.” He raises his hand and grazes it lightly across your nipples. “I fear that I have exhausted you, Pet.”

It strikes you, for the second time this evening, that your night with Michael is nearing its termination, and you have yet to be relieved of your maidenhead. The Duke has not even revealed his cock, you think with a blush.

Why would Michael visit such perdition upon you, without even claiming his own pleasure?   

A great many questions exist that ought to be answered. But your eyelids feel heavy. You have known true weariness before, as when you sat vigil at your Papa’s bed for thirty-six hours, fearing to shut your eyes. But this is a different kind of exhaustion. This exhaustion makes you feel like a floating nothing; a nothing who is known by no one, and can, therefore, spend an eternity in Michael Langdon’s bed, dreaming of emptiness.    

But your dreams, when they come, are not empty, for you are certain you hear in them the disquieting sound of the Duke of Langdon whispering against your hair,

“Forgive me…”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

When you awake, Michael is fully clothed and observing you from the settee.

Enmity and formality return in full force as he orders you to dress, then rushes you out of his house and into the waiting ebony coach outside.

It is still dark, and the oncoming morning is as impossible to conceive of as infirmity to the minds of healthy, rollicking children. The clouds have dumped their rain and disappeared, leaving only the fading glitter of a few stars.

You hate the Duke, and you hate this house that he stole from Lord Blackwood. But leaving him now feels like parting from a sanctuary.

Michael must have caught your moon-eyed expression, for he pushes you into the coach.

“We have had our first night, Ms. Y/n,” he says, his manner oddly stiff. He does not meet your gaze, preferring instead, to talk to the reigns of the geldings. “It is likely that I will not feel the compulsion to repeat this unremarkable experience for some time.”  

Were it not so dark, you would probably see his lovely face straining for the sharpest dagger in his arsenal.

Michael could not be more obvious. And still, it pierces.

‘Unremarkable’.

You lean it, on impulse, and press your unremarkable lips against his in the darkness. You taste astonishment.

“I hope that you do not feel ‘the compulsion’ ever again, Michael,” you lie. Before he can answer, you slam the coach door shut, and the geldings gallop away, leaving a hanging of dust.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

You climb into the bath in the crispness of morning, while all the visitors of Goode Manor are abed. Everywhere that you bring the scented, soapy water, is a place that Michael has sucked or kissed.

You feel altered. As though your body has been replaced by a new vessel, a body of pleasure flying against the wind and sky. 

If you think about any one thing that happened last night you will start to cry. It was all too much. To revelatory. Too confusing.

And your backside hurts.

It hurts quite a lot.

In a reminding sort of way…

Later, in the late afternoon, the coven all sit together in the parlour.

You read passages from ‘The Tempest’ while listening to Madison charm the air with the pianoforte. She plays with skill and emotional exuberance. But it hearing music, now, like a great many formerly innocent things, makes you think of Michael.

You have staunchly avoided eye contact with Coco since she entered the room. It is accomplished easily enough, as she is suffering from what she calls ‘the disagreeable after-effects of a night of agreeable dissipation,’ meaning that she drank too much champagne last night at Lady Pemberton’s. You feel a guilty. Coco is the one person, above all, in whom you wish you could confide your… predicament. Perhaps you SHOULD tell her…

“Did you see the way that elongated woman was looking at Lord Langdon?" whispers Coco, feeding a morsel of cherry tart to her Pomeranian, Crumpet. "Like he was a big glazed ham, and she was Crumpet. Except that Crumpet's a diamond of the first water and would never NEED to look at a man like that.”

Or, perhaps, not.

Queenie jumps in, blissfully relieving you of the task of answering. “That was Lady Isabella Darwood,” she says, loud enough for Madison to look up from the pianoforte in annoyance. “She was the late Duke of Langdon’s mistress. They’re taking bets at Almacks that the new Duke will be giving her congé within a fortnight. Not that she looks as though she will leave quietly…”

“But that assumes that Lord Langdon has made Darwood his mistress already,” counters Coco.

Lady Cordelia interrupts the sickening swell in your stomach by making a startled noise and looking up from her newspaper. “I don’t believe it…” she breathes.

“What?” cries Queenie. “What has happened?”

Cordelia holds up the paper. Her face shines with joy and puzzlement. “Parliament was called into meeting unexpectedly this morning,” she says. “The prison reform bill has been passed. It appears that some ANGEL of a Lord has been reading your pamphlets, Y/n...”

Angel?

O no.

‘No angel at all,’ you think, and proceed to melt into the sofa.

………………………………………………………………

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, lovely, generous readers for your sweet comments and encouragement. My confidence in my writing is bolstered by your kindness in ways you cannot imagine. Thank you!!!  
> I must apologize for the relative shorter length of this chapter. I promise that I will update very, very soon (in a few days, tops). This whole chapter kind of felt to me like a continuation of the previous one, a wrapping up of the horny interlude that was the first night. I am sincerely sorry if it was a let down and shall endeavor to provide more fun and plotting in the next. OMG THE MORE I THINK ABOUT IT, THIS WASN’T EVEN LIKE A REAL CHAPTER AT ALLLLLL!!! ARGH. Sorry again.  
> Incidentally, you wouldn’t believe the confusion I had trying to research whether or not it was plausible for a (very nerdy) virginal lady in the regency era to know the word ‘clitoris’, or if it was even around as, like, A WORD back then. Still have not gotten to the bottom of that. Will correct/alter if/when necessary.  
> ALmacks was the HOTTEST social club in the regency era. The patronesses of Almacks were like the Regina Georges of London and they could make or break members of the ton. Gambling and betting on stuff that went on in society was a big thing there (like: will Lady Such and Such bring Lord Whoever ‘up to scratch’ by April? Stuff like that.)  
> A gentleman who ‘gives congé’ to his mistress is, effectively dumping her. How cold!  
> Stay tuned for the smoldering of complications that shall rise from the sex crater of their first night! And for night #2.  
> Love you guys :D :D :D


	6. Chapter 6

“Eros, again now, the loosener of limbs troubles me,

 

Bittersweet, sly, uncontrollable creature….”

― Sappho

…………………………………………………………………….

After hearing that it would aid in the processes of digestion, Lady Myrtle Snow ordered her Yorkshire dining room be painted the colour of peach blossoms. This, of course, required that new drapes and curtains be ordered. After no meagre degree of consideration, maroon and moss green were decided upon.

Now, at last, Lady Snow’s dining room is complete, and, like so many perverts at a Brimstone Society revel, it demands witnesses. Coven, or no Coven, the dining room is the real reason that Myrtle is set to host a weekend party at her country home.

Lady Snow’s niece, Lady Zoe Benson has been nattering on and on about the ‘Brimstone Society’ and their antics. She says that having a large assortment of the scoundrels- including their leader, the Duke of Langdon- converged upon one stately home, will allow her and her friends to unearth new information regarding their activities. Myrtle can only sigh and shake her head at the folly of youth.

“Men like the Duke of Langdon, and his father before him, have existed for centuries, dear, and will persist in raining misery upon the unfortunate until such a time as the earth is a barren crater,” she tells Zoe in her deceptively soft, honeycomb voice as the girl busies herself drawing up invitations. “But I shall have the gardener cut roses and dahlias for the guest rooms.”

Deep down, if she admits it to herself, Lady Snow is a tad frightened. She remembers the days when the ‘Demon Duke’, Leo Langdon, was in his prime. Never had Myrtle met anyone so purely, innately evil. The late Duke had lived to defile. Contempt for humanity swirled all about his elegant form like miasma over a boiling lake. And what was worse: he knew how to be charming. It was in the Duke’s presence that the young girl Myrtle had been had felt the self-conscious frisson of her own womanhood for the first time. 

If Leo’s son is as terrible as everyone says he is, then WHAT is Myrtle inviting to Snow Hall?

But could he REALLY be?

Myrtle was good friends with Michael’s mother, Vivienne. She has even kept up an occasional correspondence with Vivienne’s sister, Miriam Meade, lo this decade. Not that Myrtle intends to tell Cordelia this.

She has her own theories regarding Michael Langdon and his ‘entrenched corruption’, but, then again, Myrtle has always been eager to pendulate in the direction of a beautiful face…

Whatever the truth is, she intends to let the merry war betwixt the Brimstone Society and the Coven carry on to its inevitable conclusion. Myrtle will even allow her splendid Snow Hall to serve as backdrop for one of its bloodiest battles, providing that no one damages her Filippo Lippis…

……………………………………….

“Tell me about Ms. Y/n,” says Isabella Darwood.

She is sprawled like an odalisque upon the settee in her brother Albion’s London drawing room.

If the house has a feminine air it is because she helped him decorate it. The pink cherry blossom wallpaper, and Brussels weave carpets were imported specially, along with the chandeliers and scores of musical instruments which nobody will ever play.

Isabella’s morning dress is of periwinkle blue, and her pelisse undone to reveal a generous, porcelain swell of bosom. The long, golden coils of her hair spread around her in that coveted, Venus-like way that is her signature. She reaches idly to the table next to her and takes up her favorite ivory snuff box. After tapping the lid twice, she opens it, sighing at the perfume as it wafts up to her. Isabella’s snuff of choice is flavored with ground attar roses. She offers none to Albion, before pinching a smudge of the tobacco between her thumb and forefinger and lifting it to her nostrils. Isabella prides herself on her ability to inhale without a hint of a grimace. Nor does she hack and bray like a donkey after she partakes, as so many ‘gentlemen’ she knows are wont to do. Clicking the box shut, she returns her gaze to her brother.

“Ms. Y/n?” says Albion, puzzled. “You mean the most recent addition to Lady Goode’s coterie of harridans?”

“The same.”

Albion’s brow furrows. “Not much to say about her, really. Her mother was Lady Vanderbilt’s younger sister. Her father was a ‘gentleman astronomer’.”

“An oxymoron to rule them all,” says Isabella with a smirk. The carriage clock on the mantle chimes at the precise moment the siblings exchange chuckles.

“Why do you ask?” drawls Albion after taking a swig of cognac. Then, as if a peg has been fit into one of the holes in his swiss cheese block of a brain, he exclaims, “Are we to do a spot of ruination, Sis? Like when you recruited me to help you destroy young Lady Charlton lo those years ago.” His beady little eyes shimmer at the memory.

Isabella smiles at the reminder of just how much her brother delighted in ruining eighteen-year-old Dorothea Charlton at her command. Boorish though he may be, Albion executed the task with talent and efficiency. He was able to arrange to have himself and Dorothea ‘discovered’ by a cavalcade of guests at a country house party. The unfortunate little chit was naked to the waist. The ton spoke of it for months. The most delicious part of the scheme was, of course, that Dorothea’s Father was a member of the Brimstone Society, and Duke Leo had a ledger on him the size of the Sargasso Sea. Ergo, the girl’s brothers were hardly in a position to challenge Albion to pistols at dawn for her honour.

Isabella sighs at the remembrance of her triumph, then frowns. “I have forgotten why we implemented the scheme to begin with,” she admits.

“Lady Charlton stole your dressmaker’s most esteemed creation from under you,” Albion reminds her. “She wore it to make her debut at the Ralston ball. You said that it was reserved for you. Gold and violet, I think it was.”

“Gold and violet? Why, Albion, what a memory for frivolities you have!”

Ah, yes, it is coming back to Isabella now. How she had fumed to see that equine-faced debutante arrive at the Ralston’s wearing HER gown! Madame Bathilde swore she had designed the sheer muslin and embroidery with Isabella in mind. But then, young Dotty, for all her horse-like features, was similarly statuesque, and her Duke father rendered her a worthier ambassador for the dressmaker than a rich but ‘fallen’ woman like Isabella. 

“Who could forget that bosom?” says Albion with a helpless shrug. “Her breasts looked imprisoned. Every man in the room wanted to storm that Bastille, Sis.”

Isabella laughs dryly. “And YOU did, dear Brother. YOU did…”

Albion raises his glass in toast of the infamous occasion. “To ruined young girls.” He takes a drink, then knits his brow. “But why are you are fixated on Ms. Y/n? She’s a minnow, Bella, a nothing. I very much doubt that she even hires a dressmaker. It is no secret that the girl lives in reduced circumstances. Not fit for the marriage mart at all.”

“Yes,” says Isabella. “I gathered that. And I am not ‘fixated’, merely curious.”

“If you want me to bring down one of Lady Goode’s syndicate of virgins,” says Albion, leaning in conspiratorially, “might I suggest Ms. Coco Vanderbilt? Now THERE is a diversion…” He reaches for the snuff box on the table, but Isabella bats his hand away.

‘What a blathering idiot my brother is…’ she thinks for the third time inside of a quarter hour. Were it not for the fact that Viscount Darwood excels at hitting, shooting and fucking things, he would be entirely useless. Leo, who was touched by his blind, canine loyalty, had referred to Albion as ‘my rottweiler’.

If Isabella had not agreed to become Leo’s mistress all those years ago, her brother would surely be in debtor’s prison by now, or dead in some cheap whore’s hovel in St. Giles. Yet, HE had been their Father’s pride and joy, while Isabella was naught but a perpetual, female burden. She sizzles with resentment for a moment, then puts the emotion tidily away.

“It is Ms. Y/n I am interested in, not Coco Vanderbilt,” Isabella says. “Tell me more about her.”

“She’s rather a blue stocking,” says Albion with distaste. “Always going on about planetary bodies and the like. Her addle pate of a father taught her to concern herself with interests outside the scope of what is proper for a lady. Lord Ralston told me she snuck into his library one afternoon during a luncheon. Read herself silly apparently. Leibnitz IF you can believe it…” Albion laughs heartily. “Zooks! Can you imagine being interested in such things, Bella? Who would look at you?”

Isabella keeps a delicate smile plastered on her face as she listens, even as she feels herself blanch at the words. What her idiot brother does not realize is that intelligence is the honey that draws Michael Langdon to the fairer sex.

Isabella recalls the first time that she herself captured Michael’s attention. She had the attention of every man at Almacks that night, but she might have been spouting nonsense for all that they knew or cared. Lord Chisholm made some inane ‘joke’ about pushing Isabella into the shadows and ‘stealing’ a kiss. “Never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception,” she quipped. And then, across the table, that golden head turned, and those brilliant blue-green eyes fixed upon her, as though she alone possessed a brain, in a world populated entirely with the brain-less.

‘Machiavelli,’ was Michael Langdon’s first utterance to her.

They proceeded to talk the night away.

What a good feeling that had been… But Isabella refuses to get sentimental over it now.

“Ms. Y/n lives with the Vanderbilt’s, as I understand it?” she says.

“Yes, she lived in the country with her Father until after his death. Now she is the Vanderbilt’s resident poor relation. Honestly, why such a creature has peaked your interest, Sis, is well beyond me.”

‘Counting is well beyond you’ thinks Isabella bitterly.

She is, naturally, reluctant to confess her suspicion that you have caught Michael’s eye. To lose him would be a disgrace. To lose him to such a rival is not to be borne at all. A vice closes over her thoughts. Isabella has lived for years without ever once suspecting she might be annexed in her former lover’s affections- but there was something about the way Michael looked at you in Lady Pemberton’s ballroom; and something in the way his hands had stiffened at her waist when his gaze met the fused shape of you and Lord Chesterton dancing, that feeds a rising, dazzling hatred within her.

Could it be?

Could a penniless bluestocking be the reason why Michael so roundly refused Isabella’s offer of alliance?

Isabella has always regarded jealousy- especially the jealousy of women- to be the mark of a weak character. To envy is to find shortage within one’s self, not superiority in the other. And yet, Isabella will burn the whole world before she loses Michael to the likes of you. And if she must entail the services of her horrid brother, well, she isn’t above that.

“Albion,” she says casually. “I need you to use your Brimstone connections to secure us an invitation to Lady Snow’s weekend party in Yorkshire.”

Albion wrinkles his nose. “Lady Snow? That harpy? Why would we want to go there?”

Isabella tries- she really does try her best- to sound patient. “Because, half the ton will be there, including your Brimstone buddies and Lady Cordelia’s girls. But more importantly, the Duke of Langdon is set to attend.”

“The Brimstone Society is due to have its meeting at Darkholme Abbey later that week anyway,” says Albion, unhelpfully. “I’ll see the Duke then, don’t you worry.”

“You’ll get us that invitation,” says Isabella.

“Why? So that I can be railed at by that old woman? Have you forgotten the cut direct she delivered to you at Almacks last Spring? And this was BEFORE Duke Leo cocked up his toes.”

“Her slights do not bother me.”

This is not quite true. If Isabella is to be hated, she prefers for that hatred to be tinged with fear and awe. Lady Snow, historically, has provisioned neither of these. “You needn’t ask so many questions, Albion. I have told you my wishes. Just trust me and do as I say.”

“Careful there, Bella,” says Albion, the dragon of his temper stirring. “Duke Leo is dead, and with him, any semblance of power you ever brandished over me. I do not answer to my whore of a sister anymore.”

If she were sitting close enough, Isabella would slap him for that, or perhaps kick him in the bollocks. But she is across the room, and her brother is hardly worth the bother of getting up and spoiling the line of her pelisse. “But you answer to Michael Langdon don’t you? He is your new master, and you his loyal pet.”

Albion’s face turns a shade of scarlet to rival his thinning hair. “Mind your tongue, sister, before you lose it.”

Isabella ignores the warning. “You were present, were you not, when Michael took Lord Blackwood’s family home for himself? Took it as though it was nothing! How long before he strips YOU of your lands and titles? Admit it, Albion, you are on very uncertain ground with the Duke. You bark for him when he bids it. Do not pretend otherwise.”

“Shut your mouth, minx!”

Isabella scoffs. “Or what? You’ll kidnap me and drag me onto the dais at one of your Brimstone revels?”

Albion bristles. Isabella seizes her opportunity to slip under his skin. “O, but that’s just the problem, isn’t it Albion? Michael does not seem to go in for that sort of thing. He has not let you take women against their will in front of an audience. He does not reward you or pamper you the way Leo did. You have lost your place.”

“It is YOU who has lost her place!” spits Albion. “You used to warm the bed of the most powerful man in England. Now you are a mere, fading denizen of the ‘demimonde’, who needs ME to secure an invitation to some crone’s country weekend.”

The words hit Isabella where she is vulnerable. She would like to think that her brother is speaking untruths, but the possessing of illusions has been, for years, the one and only privilege barred from her life. Leo was her rock and protector. Without him, her stock value in society has fallen immeasurably. And slowly, she is losing the beautiful ammunition that nature furnished her with. Soon, the bon ton will think better of courting scandal by allowing her to attend its functions. Soon, she will cease to be anything more than a formerly powerful, fallen woman.

Unless, that is, she can regain the affection of the current Duke of Langdon.

It is ironic really: the man whose memory has kept a painful scrap inside of Isabella HUMAN, against every wish in her heart, is also the man who can restore her to her rightful power.

She draws herself up on the settee and lets her slippered feet touch the floor. “I was Michael Langdon’s great love,” she tells her brother. “It would behoove you to remember that, brother mine. I need only play my hand, and I shall become mistress of your entire Brimstone Society.”

Albion grants this assertion his consideration. “Perhaps, Sister,” he allows. “But have you managed to sink your talons back into the Duke since your timely return from Amsterdam?”

Isabella raises her chin. “When have I set out to seduce, and fallen short of my mark?”

Albion smiles in concession. “Never.”

“And do you doubt me now?”

Albion’s beady black eyes rake his sister’s form from top to bottom, lingering a little on the curve of her bosom. “No,” he says.

Isabella smiles through her nausea. She reminds herself that self control is not inaction. She reminds herself that she need not suffer the sight or sound of Albion once she has used him to achieve her ends. “I’ll have you back at the top of the pecking order of your little cabal, in no time,” she promises. “You’ll have your pick of society virgins to defile, and rookery dwellers to slaughter.”

Albion’s chest swells in hope. “Like the old days…” he sighs.

“It will be better than the old days,” says Isabella. “I know Michael. He is not a good man. His Father made sure of that. He glories in blood, power and the crushing of innocence. He simply needs to be reminded who he is.”

“If you really think you can do it, Sis…”

“I will do it, you ungrateful wretch. Just watch me. But I DO need your help.”

“Lady Snow’s weekend.”

“Yes. We need to be there. Call in every favor you are owed. See that it is accomplished. I need to…” Isabella searches for the right words. “There is a situation about which I… require greater understanding. It concerns Ms. Y/n.”

Albion’s features are vitalized upon hearing this. “So, we ARE to do a spot of ruination!”

Isabella’s lips curve as though it is all a great lark. “Perhaps, Brother, perhaps.”

……………………………………….

It has been seven days.

Seven days since hell swallowed you into its warm, velvet mouth, and you allowed its favorite son intimacies which no decent woman ever would.

The first three days were a fever. You can barely even say how you entertained yourself whilst occupying the sumptuous sitting rooms of Goode Manor. You walked a bit, but never strayed too far from the house, fearful that you might encounter HIM. You began, then left scattered and barely read, works by Hobbes, Sophocles and St. Thomas Aquinas. (So far, the only thing that has managed to keep your thoughts away from the continuing catastrophe that is Michael Langdon has been a love story concerning the lives of two newly impoverished sisters whose author has chosen to go by ‘A Lady.’)

By the fourth day, a strangled sort of calm returned to your life when word came that Michael Langdon’s coach was seen departing for London.

On the fifth day, you ventured out for a long walk round the ambling property, and even watched as Coco, Madison, and Queenie fished in the pond Cordelia’s late husband had ordered made.    

On the sixth day, there was a minor crisis. You did NOT cry because Michael’s sudden absence from the gothic monolith next door had put an end to the fantastical possibility of seeing him soon. You did NOT cry because reality itself was poorer when he was not near you in Bedfordshire…

On the evening of the seventh day, the invitations for the weekend party at Snow Hall arrive.

“A weekend in Yorkshire!” exclaims Coco, “how diverting! I don’t care if that priggish old bat, Myrtle Snow, judges my necklines. I intend to make MERRY.”

“It will be more than a weekend of dinners and lawn games, Silly,” says Madison knowingly. “I’ve received a letter from Zoe, who has been staying at her Aunt Snow’s this past week. She says that she has convinced the Marchioness to invite a slew of Brimstone Societiers to the party, including the Duke of Langdon himself!”

Your hearts stills.

“L-Lord Langdon will be there?” you say.

O but the fates ARE cruel…

“It will be the perfect opportunity to gather intelligence,” agrees Queenie. “When else shall we be afforded such proximity to Lord Langdon and his operations?”

“You’re just saying that because Algernon Fullerton’s Mother is Lady Snow’s great friend, so naturally your darling ‘Algie’ is going to be there!” teases Madison.

Queenie examines the beading of her reticule. “I can have no idea what you are talking about,” then adds, under her breath, “You, jealous shrew, Madison Montgomery…”

“At least SOMEONE in this house has a man deuced in love with her!” exclaims Coco forlornly. “I wore my best gown to Lady Pemberton’s last week, and Lord Windham looked at me with naught but respect.”

“It was not your fault that Lucretzia Borgia herself decided to crash the proceedings,” says Madison.

…And that is your cue to disengage your attention from this particular conversation.

Because you know that ‘Lucretzia Borgia’ is Lady Darwood.

The girls’ conversation over the past few days has returned to the subject of the notorious Lady Darwood too often for comfort. Every time you imagine the Late Duke Leo’s mistress, you feel such shameful, stinging jealousy as you cannot abide. She is the purest avatar of classical female perfection you have ever witnessed. Is that really enough to earn your disapproval? Are you that much of a simpleton? Why should it matter how RIGHT she and Michael look together? Why should you care about the history that seems to dwell in the very air between them? To feel such intense negative feelings toward a fellow woman seems wrong, and, not to mention, entirely antithetical the ethos of the Coven…

Tuning out your friends’ chatter, you turn your focus to the window. You gaze out over the rolling, meandering Arcadia of Lady Cordelia’s gardens. As much as you love every shrub and grotto of this property, perhaps the change in scenery will liberate you from associations of your night with Michael.

That is, of course, unless he takes the opportunity of close proximity to you at Snow Hall to claim night deux.

Your quim pulses at the thought.  

Dear lord. You are fit for bedlam.

Could it be that you are aroused by the thought of being lured into another impropriety under the roof of Zoe Benson’s genteel Aunt? While your friends slumber in nearby rooms?

Alas, yes.

Against every shred of good judgement, and every instinct of self preservation, you dream of being possessed, once more, by Michael Langdon. You have entertained fantasies that- surely!- no gently bred debutante ever has, of applying your mouth to Michael’s… nether parts… in the manner of a harlot in one of Mr. Rowlandson’s etchings. It is not only the thought of seeing him unclothed that excites you, it is the possibility of rendering that famously cruel man speechless and insensible. Just as he has rendered you. 

“It is likely that I will not feel the compulsion to repeat this unremarkable experience for some time.” 

The malignant words are scored into your brain.

How can the Duke tell you that you are beautiful, make you inchoate with desire… and then say such a thing?

“You are looking awfully peaked, Y/n,” observes Coco, bursting your reverie with her kind voice.

You turn and look at her, half dazed.

“You have not looked at all well since the night of the Pemberton ball,” agrees Queenie. “Have you caught an ague?”

You swallow with no small amount of effort, shake your head and force yourself to smile. “I am perfectly fine. I promise.” You clear your throat. “Coco, might you show me what dresses you have selected to take with you to Lady Snow’s. You said that Madame Bathilde was inspired by your mother’s baubles to make you a, erm, a yellow gown, was it?”

Coco’s eyes light up. “Why, YES!”

……………………………………………..

If Snow Hall can comfortably lay claim to be the grandest country home in all of England, it is because its mistress would scarcely allow herself, or her army of servants, to sleep if it were otherwise.

Your party arrives on Friday evening before dinner. After hours of growing numb and rumpled in the barouche landau, listening to Queenie plan out Algernon Fullerton’s proposal to her, while Coco fed her dog bonbons which inevitably give the poor creature the kind of gas that made the entire box smell like Henry VIII’s ‘great house of easement’, you are unprepared for the splendour of property.

Unlike the carefully rendered ‘wildness’ of the Goode Estate, Lady Snow has ordained her gardens be as immaculate, colour coordinated and geometric as those she has seen fringe chateaus in France. You have heard it whispered, in botanical minded circles, that the late Earl of Snow had a grove of Himalayan Hemlocks planted somewhere to the west of the manicured gardens. You shall have to beg Zoe to take you there one afternoon.

The entrance hall of Lady Snow’s Utopia is replete with marble pillars, elaborately carved cornices and, looming over everything, a sculpted frieze depicting Diana, Goddess of the Hunt, impaling a stag. The wall sconces are of the palest pink Waterford crystal. An enormous staircase appears to float weightlessly up to multiple floors, accented by balusters of wrought iron crafted to resemble delicate, cream coloured lace.  

You have never stayed here, or met the Marchioness personally, but are aware of a friendship that existed between your Papa and the late Earl of Snow. The two men maintained a correspondence during the last years of the gouty Earl’s life. Evidently Lady Snow’s husband harboured a fascination for the discoveries of Christiaan Huygens, Giovanni Domenico Cassini and William Herschel. ‘Titan, Lapetus, Rhea, Tethys, Dione, Mimas and Enceladus fill my dreams at night!’ the Earl wrote in one of his final letters to Papa. He sounded like a lovely man, and dead, though he may be, you envy him. Saturn’s moons USED to be the stuff of your dreams too, before Michael came alone and flicked them all away like so many moth balls. 

The Marchioness sweeps into the entrance hall to greet you as though you were her subjects. She is dressed in a gown of emerald green, with a dramatic ruff collar that whispers of Elizabeth the 1st. Her eyes are the colour of a cold, deep ocean. Beneath her cap of finest, English lace, her red hair shines like a newly minted penny.  Zoe trails behind, looking slightly harried. You and your friends dip to curtsey. But before introductions have even been made, Lady Myrtle envelops Lady Cordelia in an embrace. Coco told you once that Lady Myrtle served as something of a second mother to the Duchess, especially in the months following her initially undesired marriage to John Henry Goode.

“The Bedfordshire air has been kind to you, Dear,” she says, grasping Cordelia’s chin for inspection. “You do not show your age, and you have not scarred, though you insist on embroiling yourself in these unsavory matters concerning the Duke of Langdon and his brigade.”

Lady Cordelia looks down bashfully. “Really, Lady Snow, it is not as if we go around London rapping on the doors of mansions and brandishing pitchforks… As much as that would be deserved at times,” she adds slyly.

“In my day,” says Lady Myrtle, “one visited vengeance upon a man by marrying him.”

Chuckles abound. But when Lady Snow frowns, the misjudged laughter ceases immediately.

“And what have we here?” asks the Marchioness, casting a rather astringent gaze over the visiting entourage of youth. “New acolytes, Delia? Which one have you taken under your petticoats?”

Lady Cordelia lets out an uncomfortable cough-laugh.

“It was a JOKE,” barks Lady Snow, though, once again, she evinces no hint of humour. “I know that you are as devoted as ever to that gutter mouthed chamber maid of yours… ‘Storm Cloud’ was it? I recall that is sounded rather more like a weather event than a person…”

Lady Cordelia actually blushes. “Misty Day. And she sends her regards, by the way.”

The Marchioness says nothing. Her mouth only tightens into a thin, grim line.

“Lady Snow, these are some young ladies that I have the privilege of chaperoning this season,” Cordelia says, gesturing to you all. “You already know Ms. Coco Vanderbilt, of course, and I believe you are acquainted with the families of Ms. Queenie and Ms. Montgomery. Ms. Y/n is the daughter of the Late Earl’s friend, the astronomer.”

You, Coco, Queenie and Madison nod your heads respectfully, then wait in line, as if to be properly examined.

“I trust you shall confine that rodent to your room, Ms. Vanderbilt,” is all that Lady Snow says to Coco. It takes a moment for your cousin to realize that the Marchioness is referring to Crumpet, the beloved bundle of Pomeranian slumbering in her arms. You practically HEAR Coco think her rebuttal, but Lady Snow is so forbidding that she can only nod acquiescence and plan rebellion.

“I know your Grandfather,” Lady Snow tells Madison. “The General is a very talented man.” For the briefest of moments, her blue eyes grow hooded in a way that makes Madison visibly recoil. Then she passes her scrutiny onto Queenie, raking the girl from top to toe. “Lady Fullerton has told me about you,” she says. And Queenie is left to wonder WHAT exactly Lady Fullerton, her would be mother in law, had to tell.

Such, apparently, is the way of Lady Snow: with the sparest possible economy of syllables, she swings death blows.

You hold your breath when her eyes come to rest upon you.

You are surprised when the older woman reaches forward and grasps your hands firmly. “You look like him,” says Lady Snow, not unkindly. “Your Father was an exceedingly amiable man, Ms. Y/n. It gave my late husband great solace to correspond and speak with him in the final years.”

You stare at Lady Snow, grateful for the words, and uncomfortably near tears before she adds, “And it spared me having to spend time with the old codger myself…” She catches your dumbfounded expression and says, as though by way of explanation, “The Earl was rather tiresome- as all men in their old age are wont to be. And most, alas, in youth as well. He was always saying that talking to your Father about stars made him feel ‘wonderfully small’. Believe me, it should not have taken celestial bodies to nail the point home, but there you have it.”

Cordelia clears her throat. “Lady Snow, Ms. Y/n here is rather interested in astronomy in her own right,” she says.

Lady Snow looks at you as though you are an oddity on par with a talking dolphin. “Is that so?”

“You shall have to show her the telescope that the Earl installed in the conservatory,” suggests Cordelia.

Lady Snow’s expression turns sour. “I cannot show anyone, because I do not have it anymore.”

“Whatever happened to it?” asks Cordelia.

“Henry, Lord Snow’s miscreant of a son from his FIRST marriage, came in here while I was taking the waters in Bath and absconded with it.”

“Absconded? Isn’t it rather heavy?”

“It was a planned effort,” says Lady Snow darkly. “He claims he lost it in a bet. Probably he kept it, and uses it to peer into the windows of bawdy houses, I cannot know.”

“What a shame,” says Lady Cordelia with a sigh.

Lady Snow purses her lips and proceeds to say, as though you were not present in the room, “After Ms. Y/n has made an advantageous marriage, THEN she can have a wilderness of telescopes, and indulge all of her whims and eccentricities to her little heart’s content. For now, she would be best advised to focus her efforts on the HUNT.”

Your cheeks flame.

“Lady Snow…” imports Lady Cordelia, patient on your behalf. “Not every woman-”

“Yes, yes!” snipes the old lady. “Not EVERY woman wishes to marry a Viscount. Some prefer to shackle themselves to chambermaids. But do not forget, dear, that you came by your own freedom by EXHOBRITANT luck that not everyone is afforded.” Lady Snow turns to you. “Do not listen to Cordelia, dear. HER husband was not only- most conveniently- understanding of Cordelia’s ‘friendship’ with her maid, he was considerate enough to get himself murdered and leave her a fat jointure and acres of property.”

You are shocked by the statement. You have never heard anyone outside of the coven speak of the possible foul play involved in John Henry Goode’s death. It is not even something members of the coven readily discuss.

Lady Snow scoffs at her stunned visitors. “What? Do you think that I am such a ninny that I would not KNOW?” Lady Snow savors her deduction like a Bow Street runner on a hot lead. “You think that John Henry was murdered. Moreover, you are convinced that the perpetrator is none other than the Duke of Langdon.”

Every head in the room turns accusingly to Zoe.

“It wasn’t me!” the poor girl exclaims. “I never said anything about John Henry!”

“Leave the poor girl be,” says Lady Snow. “I do not need my imp of a niece to state what is painfully obvious. I am not merely a pawn in your battle plan, Delia, dear. And, if the Brimstone Society is up to something foul, I too would like to see justice served cold and tart as lemon ice- which is, incidentally what we are having after supper tonight.” 

Lady Cordelia cannot help smiling at her erstwhile surrogate mother. “Nothing escapes your notice, does it?”

“Not if it involves my house, or your girls, Delia.”

Well, you think, that does not bode well for you at all.

……………………………………………………

Upstairs, Coco helps you select a dress for dinner. The coven has appropriated an upper wing of Snow Hall. In the hour before supper, as new guests are filling the foyer downstairs, there is much scurrying between various suites and rooms. Hair is being arranged. Jewels are being selected. Cheeks are being pinched for optimal ‘freshness.’

You have never been more nervous before a social gathering. Your impression of Lady Myrtle is that she has, at once, the highest and the lowest standards of decorum of anyone you have ever met. It is terribly confusing.

Or perhaps, it is simply knowing that the Duke of Langdon is in the building, this very moment, which has you agonizing over what clothing to put on your body. It was not like this before. It strikes you, now, that hand painted fans, tear drop shaped pearls, clusters of emeralds, and silvery, spider web-thin fichus can be an armour more formidable than any you have seen lining the halls in the oldest wings of the Vanderbilt estate…

“I wonder if I could get away with putting a sprig of nosegay between my breasts…” thinks Coco aloud, drawing circles on her chest as she examines herself in the vanity mirror. “This silver brocade would clash with flowers, but how else would I invite the gentlemen to look, while simultaneously making Lady Snow think that I am HIDING that which I am drawing attention to?”

“I think Lady Snow would know what you are up to, Sweeting,” you say.

“But there will be so many other ladies to criticize,” Coco reasons. “The ironic thing is that, according to Aunt Cordelia, before her marriage, Lady Snow was the biggest lightskirt of all!”

“Really?” you ask absently, wondering if the pink crepe is too sack-like.

“Yes,” says Coco. “It proves the old adage true: reformed rakes invariably make the best husbands, while reformed tarts grow up to be dried up old prunes like Lady Snow.” 

“Don’t you think that is a little unfair, Coco?”

“What is unfair,” says your cousin, hanging a sapphire from one ear and appraising its lustre, “is that Lady Snow refuses to seat me next to Lord Windenham for dinner. Now he is going to see Madison and suffer a violent bout of coup de foudre before he even gets a whiff of my nosegay…”

Contemplating the comparative charms of a pale peach shawl and a robin’s egg blue one, you are put in mind of your Papa, whose distinct lack of vanity must have made existence in the paradigm of the upper class challenging and, perhaps, even painful to him. No wonder he avoided visiting his friend, the Earl of Snow at his homes!

“You should wear the white muslin gown,” instructs Coco, “with my pearl earrings. It shall be so elegant. You will be a beam of light.”

You smile gratefully, then look down. “Coco, you know that I do not take Lady Snow’s words seriously… what she said about my focusing on ‘the hunt’.”

Coco’s laughter cascades like water in a Florentine fountain. “You silly goose,” she says, swiping you playfully with her fan. “I merely want you to feel good. You have seemed so… I don’t know, withdrawn in the past few days, so lost in your own thoughts.” She clasps your hand in her own and looks up at you with seriousness. “What we saw at the Brimstone Society revel changed us both, Y/n. We have had so little time to discuss it privately. And I KNOW, I know… I promised not to pry-”

Coco is interrupted by sound of Madison bursting through the door. She is clad in a cream gown, and a tall assemblage of emu feathers sprouts from her hair. “YOU WILL NOT BELEEEEEEEIVE WHO HAS DEIGNED TO SHOW HER FACE IN THE PARLOUR!”

Coco gives a dismissive snort. “We already KNEW the Duke of Langdon was coming, Madison…”

Madison’s eyes gleam with excitement. “It Is not the Duke of Langdon I speak of, but rather, the lady clinging to his arm…”

Coco’s eyes attain the scale and shape of saucers. “NO!”

Madison nods, “LADY DARWOOD IS HERE! Along with her brother, Viscount Albion, who is looking at Zoe in a way that leads me to believe that Lady Snow will be planting a bullet between his eyes before the third course is served.”

You have never known such a plunging feeling in all of your life.

So THAT is why Michael abandoned Bedfordshire for ‘the delights’ of town…

But what did you think would happen? How could someone like you keep Michael’s attention for longer than an evening’s conquest? It is a miracle that he ever looked at you at all, you think, fixing Coco’s pearls to your ears.

The disturbance in your breathing is, you tell yourself, merely the result of Coco’s having instructed Lucy to lace your stays too tight.

When Madison sweeps out of the room, Coco’s mood of sobriety is long gone. She catches your expression in the mirror, and, evidently having forgotten all talk of the Brimstone Society, says, “I know. Those feathers in Madison’s hair make me want to cry too.”

……………………………………………………..

There are too many people for comfort in Lady Snow’s parlour. What makes it worse is knowing that, poised so elegantly amid the furnishings of blonde oak and gold patterned wallpaper are men that you recently saw fornicating while wearing Venetian masks.

Lady Cordelia sits watchfully with Lady Snow and the Dowager Countess Fullerton on a sofa by the windows. Madison is exhibiting her talents on the piano, much to the appreciation of a pack of gangly young men with carnations in their button holes. There are impromptu conclaves of conversation and much meaningful fan fluttering happening throughout the room.

So what if you scan the scene in search of Michael? One should be apprised of the general location of one’s enemy when one enters a battleground.

When you see him, all that is not him falls to mere blended backdrop. The occurrence is familiar by now, but no less disquieting.

His waving hair makes him look a little like the St Sebastian hanging in Lady Snow’s hallway. Only Michael is more handsome, wearing clothing, and generally the shooter, rather than the target, of arrows. His waistcoat, which is of blue silk so dark as to appear nearly black, is appealingly form fitting and beset with a platinum watch chain. His tailcoat is the colour of merlot. He is holding a glass of champagne to his mouth, poised to drink, when he turns his head, and freezes.

You can feel the force of Michael’s gaze the moment it finds you. But no sooner do you meet eyes, and feel a blush rising in your face as you recall all of the things he did to you when last you were together, then are your twinned attentions captured by a third party.

Lady Isabella Darwood sails across the room, clad in a turquoise that matches Michael’s eyes. As she moves, she snatches, with nary a hint of effort, the slack jawed awe of every male in her wake, and the unconcealed envy of many of the women.

She arrives at Michael’s side, and loops her arm through his. Just as you are turning away, you catch her looking in your direction.

Your search for the nearest ally culminates in meeting Zoe and settling with her onto a couch at the far end of the room.

You sit together for a while, and your heartbeat steadies as you mull over the attendees.

“I think that Lady Snow knows more about the Brimstone Society than she shares with us,” whispers Zoe, shielding your faces with her painted fan. “If she did not love Lady Cordelia so much, I would think she was playing both sides.”

“Perhaps she loves Lady Cordelia and is ALSO playing both sides,” you suggest. “Surely it is not only scoundrels who are involved in the Brimstone Society.” You know you must be careful with this line of thought, so as not to implicate Coco’s Father, or hint at your own feelings for Michael Langdon.  

O dear lord… Your ‘feelings’ or him… No one must ever know about THAT.

At that moment, Mr. Gallant, seated with a pair of mustachioed parliament members on a nearby couch cracks a joke that makes his companions roar with laughter.

“I had a nightmare of a time convincing Aunt Snow to include Mr. Gallant on the guest list for this weekend,” says Zoe, eyeing the lone male member of the Coven.

“Why?” you ask. “Is it because he is, or was, a particular ‘friend’ of John Henry Goode?”

“No, not at all. Aunt Snow does not care a wit about that. In fact, there were enough stories about her and that beautiful Russian Countess, Hélène Kuragina, to give the late Earl pause. No, she did not want Mr. Gallant here because he is ‘in trade’.”

You stifle a laugh. “Is she really such a snob?”

“Incurable,” says Zoe. “But I explained to her that we need someone to be our eyes and ears when the men have their cigars and port and…well, come to think of it, there are quite a number of things the sexes are supposed to do separately at these functions. And to think she means for marriages to be fostered here…”

“Lady Cordelia says that that is precisely what makes us such deadly opponents for the Brimstone Society. They think us naught but docile little hens, happy to excuse ourselves while they discuss statecraft.”

“But we DO excuse ourselves, don’t we?” says Zoe. “Even Lady Cordelia must use Mr. Gallant as her mouthpiece in parliament.”

“That is regrettable,” you agree.

“Lady Snow believes in the ‘silent supremacy’ of women,” says Zoe. “When I speak to her of how dedicated I am to the Coven, she tells me that I could do far more good as the wife of someone ‘of consequence’.”

“I suppose it is the way she was raised.”

“It is the way ALL of us were raised,” says Zoe bitterly. “Despite our ideals we are caught in the margins of action. We desire to crack open the chains placed upon us, while at the same time hoping to make ‘brilliant’ marriages. All save you, poppet, whose Papa filled your head with stardust.”

Your smile is a folly. Behind it, there is only guilt. Your Papa may as well have filled your head with bees’ wax for all the good it is doing you now.

“I am beginning to think that we shan’t ever be able to strike back sufficiently,” professes Zoe, looking glumly over the room. She gestures to the middle aged man seated next to Viscount Darwood near the pianoforte. His face is powdered, and his mouth the colour of liver. “Lord Grimsby over there has… tampered with three of his wife’s ladies’ maids. Lady Cordelia arranged to have him kidnapped and ‘frightened’ six months ago. But our eyes in Grimsby house say that he is getting ‘tactile’ again.” Zoe sighs. “When will anything we do be ENOUGH? Must we live in fear that the Brimstone Society will crush us like damsel flies caught between their fingers?”

As disheartened as you are made by Zoe’s words, you are grateful to be reminded that Michael is your enemy.

“Perhaps we should play as dirty as they do,” you suggest. 

“But the Duke of Langdon plays with life and death,” whispers Zoe. “I shan’t repeat the rumours about him I have heard. But they would shock you.”

You redden, thinking that what you could tell Zoe about Michael would shock her.

“But the Duke has a lot more to lose than any of us ‘damsel flies’,” you say.

“Perhaps we should take measure of our successes, before we talk of life and death,” says Zoe seeming to find her optimism. “After all, you wrote an anonymous pamphlet about women and prison reform, and succeeded in changing the mind of some sympathetic member of Parliament.”

“I don’t think I deserve credit for that…” you say weakly.

“Nonsense. I know it was your pen that did it. What else could it have been?”

If Zoe knew… If Zoe only knew.

Zoe opens her mouth to say something more but is interrupted by the looming, incongruous presence of Isabella Darwood.

“Ms. Y/n,” she says, her tone so overly warm that it makes you wonder if you have not, in fact, been bosom friends for several years without your own knowledge. “We chance to meet again.”

She sits on the couch next to you, roundly ignoring a dumbstruck Zoe.

“How lucky that you managed to ensnare an invitation to Lady Snow’s weekend party,” says Lady Darwood, wasting no time before aiming her proverbial crossbow. “A little thing like you, in the midst of all these well positioned gentlemen… what a haven!”

Zoe makes a choked noise.

“Is there a toad in your throat, Ms. Benson?” asks Lady Darwood, blinking innocently. Before Zoe can manage a retort, Lady Darwood smiles and says, “I believe your Aunt is looking for you, Ms. Benson. Apparently there is some matter regarding centrepieces that requires your sage counsel.”  

Zoe rises with reluctance and casts you a look of solidarity before making her way across the room.

It does not escape your understanding, then, that a large fraction of the awareness in Lady Snow’s parlour shifts toward you and Lady Darwood.

She smiles playfully and touches the tip of her painted fan to her chin. The gesture is artfully feminine. Even though you dislike her, you find Isabella Darwood irresistibly fascinating. Her self assurance is as firm as the whale bone busk at centre of a corset. Her skin is smoother and more flawless than Sevre porcelain. Her figure is so generously proportioned that the many jewels and fripperies she wears coalesce into a simple, seductive whole. A woman this beautiful makes a pervert of the entire world. You blush when she looks at you and twine your fingers in your lap to keep them from trembling.

“I trust your journey up from London was pleasant?” you say, because this is the sort of pleasantry that ladies are expected to exchange.

“It was uneventful. That white is very pretty on you,” she says, raking over your figure. You have an insidious understanding that Lady Darwood believes her paying you this compliment is a great boon to your person.

“Thank you,” you say. “You are rather resplendent, yourself.”

Like mindless moths wafting toward a bright flame, gentlemen begin to converge upon your couch from all corners of the room. You are a little alarmed when none other than Lord Sotherton, Coco’s erstwhile deflowerer/stocking-thief appears, brandishing a glass of port for Lady Darwood. “I thought you might be in need of refreshment,” says the handsome idiot, grinning at her like a child lighting upon a troupe of mummers.

Lady Darwood nods at Sotherton and receives her glass. A gentleman seats himself on the couch next to you and Lady Darwood. The others look envious of him. You wonder if you chanced to see any of these men’s asses pumping away over a ‘nun’ at the last Brimstone revel. You conclude that this is likely. One of the men produces a glass of port for you too. Lady Darwood catches your surprise over the gesture, and smiles a smile that seems to say, ‘bathing in my reflected glory does have its perks!’

“What were you lovely ladies talking about?” asks Lord Sotherton.

You note that when men address Lady Darwood, they eschew a layer of the formality with which they converse with young ‘virgins’ like Coco and Madison. It is as though they are at once slaves to her power, and more comfortable to be their true, cheerful, amorous selves.

“Ms. Y/n here was just telling me that she is something of an amateur astronomer,” Lady Darwood alarms you by saying.

What is she playing at? You were telling her nothing of the sort.

The gentlemen nod as though they find this supremely interesting.

“Were any of you acquainted with her Father?” Lady Darwood asks the group. “He was quite the star gazer, wasn’t he Ms. Y/n? I remember, dear old Leo used to say, “Who is that man scuttling back and forth from Burlington House at all hours? He has forgotten to shave! He has forgotten to bathe! He does not attend to the needs of his person, he is concerned only with Mercury!”

Everyone laughs.

There is a fissure located in your solar plexus and every word that Lady Darwood utters makes it crack a little wider.

“Was the late Earl of Snow your Father’s patron?” she asks pointedly.

“N-no,” you answer shakily. “They were friends.”

“How advantageous,” says Lady Darwood, bringing the glass of port to her lips and drinking without breaking your gaze. “Such a connection must have helped you greatly. Provided that your Father ever mentioned his daughter, in between talks of the little green men who live on the surface of the moon.”

You have never heard anyone speak so baldly- or vulgarly- about ‘advantageous connections’. You know that Lady Darwood aims to embarrass you. But why she would focus such an effort on you is beyond the scope of your understanding. Is it possible that this lady regards you as her rival in her pursuit of Michael? She must be a simpleton if she believes you pose any threat to her in that arena…

Whatever the answer, you decline to cower in humiliation. You raise your chin and sit up taller. “From what I understand, Lady Darwood, my Father and the Earl shared an interest in the planet Saturn.”

“Or ‘home’ as your Father called it,” says Isabella with a little laugh. There is softer, scattered laughter among the men, though, clearly, some of them are beginning to tire of watching a puppy dog get kicked.

“Galileo used a 15-mm-diameter telescope to see Saturn’s rings for the first time,” you tell Lady Darwood, ignoring the barb. “But to him, they looked like moons.”

Lady Darwood blinks. It annoys her, you realize, that you do not appear to be devastated. So, you go on.

“Improved optical enhancements allowed Christiaan Huygens, and Giovanni Domenico Cassini to discern that they are, in fact, rings. Cassini even discovered a gap between them. The Earl of Snow was intrigued by the possibilities of telescopic magnification. He wished to commission a telescope with greater capability than any other in the world. Those were the sorts of ideas they traded, the Earl and my Father.”

The amiable smile you give her, renders Lady Darwood momentarily speechless. This is a good plan, you think. By acting as though you do not understand that she is making fun of you, you make the enterprise seem futile and petty.  

“When I was in India,” says Lord Chesterton, appearing from behind Lord Sotherton, “chaps talked about Saturn being some sort of arbiter of good and evil for men’s souls.”

You are grateful for the interjection of Lord Chesterton. You are grateful for his kindly, non-derogatory demeanor. You are grateful for the furious glance Isabella Darwood casts him. You are even grateful that he is dressed in the only outfit of the evening that rivals Michael’s in elegance. His double-breasted waistcoat is dotted with shining medallions. Unlike the other gentlemen, Chesterton seems to be genuinely more interested in what you have to say than in Lady Darwood. For this too, you are grateful. And reward him with a smile. 

“You are quite right, Lord Chesterton,” you say. “In Hindu astrology celestial bodies are known as ‘Navagrahas’. Saturn is called ‘Shani’. Its job is to judge every human being based on the balance of good and evil actions they have committed in their lives.”

“What a deuced quaint notion!” exclaims Sotherton, because he is one of those gentlemen who believes all and sundry will not rest until they have heard his opinion. 

“Why are we always rushing to invent bodies of judgement in the afterlife?” asks Lady Darwood, reclining in her seat. “I should think that we have enough of that as it is.” Her wit is met with murmured chuckling.

But the sound is punctured by a familiar voice.

“Some people enjoy being punished.”

You look up to see a wall of men parting to allow the Duke of Langdon through.

For a moment, your heart soars at his appearance. Some part of you-SOME WRETCHED, DELUDED PART OF YOU- thinks: if anyone has the power to quell the smiling wrath of Isabella Darwood, it is Michael!

“We were just talking about what an unrepentant eccentric Ms. Y/n is,” Lady Darwood lies. “An interest in heavenly bodies precludes her from the normal tastes and interests of ladies, you see.”

You wait, expecting… you know not what.

“So I see,” says Michael. His pale eyes drink your face. His manner toward you, now, is colder than ever before. “That explains so much.”

“Yes,” agrees Lady Darwood. “Though it seems to me, and I do not know if you would agree with this, Michael, that nowadays, many a young lady may use the blanket claim of ‘eccentricity’ as an excuse for any number of unsavory behaviours.”

Michael looks down his beautiful nose at you and sneers. “Not to mention, dullness.” 

You have sat on this man’s face, you think with a sudden jolt of absurdity.

You have rubbed your greedy quim all over that taunting mouth and screamed his name into candle light.

And now, here he is, joining forces with Lady Darwood to taunt you.

“Whereas ‘gentlemen’ require no excuse for being either dull or rude, do they Lord Langdon?” you say. It is, you know, the very definition of impertinence. You feel a frisson of surprise rise from the surrounding gentlemen. A nobody bluestocking has called the Duke of Langdon ‘rude’ to his face. Chesterton is practically salivating.

“Put your tongue away, Chesterton,” orders Michael, without even looking at the man.

Michael steps closer to the couch and clears his throat. The man to your right vacates his seat, and the Duke settles his powerful, elegant body beside you.

You find yourself sandwiched suddenly between Michael Langdon and Isabella Darwood. Perhaps this is what a hare feels when it is encircled by wolves- very beautiful wolves.

Michael’s breath is on her cheek. He smells of mint and bergamot. There is immeasurable danger in his voice as he whispers, so close to the shell of your ear, “Careful how you tread, Ms. Y/n.”

Your throat swells with emotion to see Lady Isabella grin at him.

“I believe you imagine, Ms. Y/n,” snarls Michael, “that, because you are not possessed of the desirable qualities of a debutante, you have been endowed with compensating reserves of cleverness?”  

Some of the gentlemen, you sense, would prefer to walk away, but the presence of Michael- their ‘King’- has pinned them here and they are forced to bear witness to a kind of partnered, verbal flogging. 

Seven days ago, you slept molded to one another.

Seven days ago, Michael kissed you as though not doing so would kill him.

Even when he spoke to you of murder, you never imagined that his cruelty could run so deep.

“All human beings must be compensated somehow,” muses Lady Darwood- swooping in to play your ally. “Some are compensated for their meagre looks with rare musical talent,” she says, throwing her voice in hopes that Madison Montgomery will hear. “Some cannot dance but embroider prettily. Some are saddled with mad Papas, and have no social graces, but have Vanderbilts for cousins…”

“And some have Langdons for benefactors,” you whisper under your breath so that only Lady Darwood and Michael can hear.

You did not mean to stoop so low. You only wished for her to stop invoking your Papa. You only wished for them to leave you in peace…

“What did you say?” Lady Darwood seethes. Her rage is silent, and incandescent as her beauty.

“Forgive me, Lady Darwood I did not-”

But before you can finish apologizing, she tips the contents of her wine glass onto the white of your muslin dress.    

“My dear, Ms. Y/n,” she cries, savoring your distress, “how clumsy of you!”

Then, the dinner bell rings.

.………………………………………..

You do not remember exiting the parlour.

The rest of the house is a blur.

One moment you are suffocating amid people, feathers, candles, crystals and marble, the next you are inhaling deeply of the night air and peering up at the rose hued sky of dusk. You keep walking, following the path that leads through Lady Snow’s orderly, French inspired gardens, past a fragrant orangery, toward a towering grove of trees.

A little while later, you look up to find yourself inside a cathedral of hemlocks.

……………………………………………

Obeying instincts against which all reasoned rebellion would be useless, Michael mumbles his excuses to Lady Darwood after dinner, and ventures out into the darkening evening.

The immediate sensation of encountering his former lover leveling you with her patented cruelty was akin to being knifed in the gut.

There is no denying it, Michael has lived a rotten, sordid life. And never has he had any trouble justifying his course.

Until now.

Why now?

Why this?

Why you?

Michael would have ripped his own beating heart out of his chest to stop Isabella’s blows from landing on their intended victim.

Isabella, who is never more dangerous than when she has smoked out a rival.

Isabella, who Michael knows has orchestrated the ruin of more than a dozen young women.

He had to do it.

Michael had to join in Isabella’s public mockery of you, elsewise the creature would suspect you to be the woman he-

Well. She would suspect SOMETHING.

And then she would devote every weapon in her considerable arsenal to destroying you.

And yet, to sit with Isabella and laugh at you, had felt like violence against his own being. Remembering it, Michael feels a self loathing so complete that it nearly unsteadies him on his path.

He walks.

Somehow, without even thinking, he knows precisely where you will be.

………………………………………

Wandering the hemlock grove, you try very hard to remember the name of this particular genus.

You pick up one of the cones that litters the ground. It is purple a scaled like a mermaid’s tale.

“Walking so late, Ms. Y/n?”

You startle and drop the cone.

Michael Langdon looms over you.  

He looks lovely in the dying dregs of daylight, framed by the soft feathered green of the hemlock trees. His extraordinary eyes glow in the shadows, as you imagine a dragon’s might. You cannot help but note, however, the rings of tiredness beneath them, and his pained expression upon seeing you.

“Tsuga dumosa,” says Michael holding one of the pine cones to the air. “If I am correct, Lady Snow’s late husband had these brought over from the foot of the Himalayas. The rainfall here suits them.”

“I never took you for a botanist, my Lord.”

“People don’t, generally.”

“I am impressed.” And, despite everything that this contemptable man has done, you smile.

Michael has been the subject of enough flattery to last him several lifetimes. He does not need you recognizing his superior botanical knowledge! He does not need you to be impressed with him. Yet, there are ribbons of pride unfurling in his chest. It has been a while, Michael realizes, since anyone like you has admired anything about him. It is a vaguely nauseating experience. Your real smile is something to behold. Truly. If they were lucky enough to see it, all of humankind would find it roundly irresistible.

All except for Michael. He just wants to pour ice water all over it. He wants to make you cry. He wants to peel you apart and dig in until there is nothing left. It is, he tells himself, a rather intense reaction to an entirely irrelevant human being. He tells himself these lies, because the he knows the truth to be too horrible to bear.

“Lady Snow was apoplectic that you were absent from dinner,” he tells you.

“I shall apologize to her,” you say simply. “I would prefer to be alone right now.”

“You are distressed by what Lady Darwood said,” Michael observes.

“Attend to your own happiness, My Lord,” you say a brusquely.

His mouth tightens. “I thought we had agreed upon ‘Michael’.”

You feel yourself blush. “Only in the privacy of your rooms, My Lord. Elsewhere, thank heaven, boundaries exist, and shan’t be permeated.”

“My authority extends well beyond the sphere of my residences, Ms. Y/n,” says Michael darkly.

You are put immediately in mind of the frontispiece of that book by Thomas Hobbes that you began reading then put down earlier this week. In it, an enormous crowned man emerges from the sea, armed with a sword and crosier. Etched into the sky space above him is a line from the book of Job: ‘Non est potestas Super Terram quae Comparetur.’

‘There is no power on earth to be compared to him.’

“Be that as it may, My Lord, I beseech you to leave me be.”

“The things she said are not true.”

You gaze at him with surprise. “I know that, My Lord.”

He hesitates. “What I said was…” He breathes in deeply. “I only meant to throw her off your scent. I did not wish for Isabella to know that we are… involved in any way.”

“I understand,” you say in a manner rigorously empty of expression. “Thank you for clarifying that, My Lord.” You force yourself to look past Michael, at the cracked, brown trunks of the beings that have lived for centuries and will continue to live even after you and he are dust. “Will you leave, now?”

 “Ms. Y/n…” says Michael, in a voice thick with unfathomable emotion.

“It never hurt before,” you confess. You do not know what compels you to this honesty. “To hear such things, before, when people said them, it did not hurt. But t-tonight, I cared...” You look at the ground, then up again just in time to see Michael striding toward you.

Without uttering a word, he scoops you into his embrace. You cry into the breast of his merlot coloured tailcoat as he murmurs comforting nonsense, heedless of snot and tears. You quake against him, releasing all of the pent-up feeling of the evening, and of the past week, until your breathing deepens. Then, as if released from a spell, you loosen your grip, and step back.

The haunted look on Michael’s face tells the story of a soul uniquely certain of its own damnation. 

“Y-you should go,” you say.

He nods. “But I won’t.”

You gasp as Michael pushes you up against the trunk of the nearest tree and kisses you with fire. You melt into the kiss, urgently, reflexively, helplessly.

Michael’s hands are on you, mapping your waist, and your breasts over your bodice, feeling and squeezing. You gasp when he bites your lips. Then, his tongue is in your mouth, twining with yours. It ventures and retreats, tasting you as though you were the sweetest ambrosia. Your fingers find his head and pull him deeper against you. He groans in surprise.

The hemlock is rough against your back as Michael insinuates his knee between your legs. “I have thought of nothing but your cunt since the night you left me,” he confesses, before swooping to graze his teeth against your jugular.

Your quim is alive with a need that verges on pain. You grind yourself against his knee. It is shameful, perhaps, but you are willing to do anything to feel him there. With a firm yank, Michael pushes down your bodice, freeing your breasts to the nettle scented air. Seeing them makes Michael curse. “Damn you…” he breathes, swooping to lick. “Fuck. I bloody hate you…” His tongue swirls decadently round the perimeter of a nipple before he takes the entirely into his mouth and moans with helpless passion. The feeling sends shockwaves to your quim.

Because you are a fallen, dissipated woman who could easily serve as inspiration for Mr. Hogarth’s next series of narrative panels, you make no effort to stop Michael when his hands delve under your dress and make quick work of removing your underpinnings.

Two fingers find the spot that is made for them, and apply perfect, circling pressure. Your eyes roll back as pleasure rises and billows all around, like a fire consuming the cathedral of trees.

Michael watches your face as you ride his fingers. His expression one of drunken, unmitigated awe. You whimper and stare back at him, fearful, inchoate with desire for things that only he can give.

And Michael is happy to give…

You become lost in the stunning focus of his face, listening to the birdsong of the falling night, and the slick sound of his hand feeding pleasure into your cunt. You clench around his fingers. Michael’s breath hitches at the feeling.

You are helpless against the rolling, coiling overabundance of pleasure when it claims you. Filled up and emptied all at once, your cry your climax to the scattering of stars beginning to appear through the tree tops, and worry, only much later on, that anyone on the property might have chanced to hear.

You fall against Michael, slick with sweat. He kisses you gently on the forehead. Then, drawing his hand from your flesh, and back up from under your skirt, he brings the wet digits to his mouth, to suck the juices of your quim as though the act was nothing less than life preserving.

Before you know it, his hand is descending again.

NO.

NO.

YOU MUST STOP THIS.

But his lips are on your throat. And his clever fingers rub your arousal plumbed folds…

THIS OUGHT TO STOP.

So, you say the only thing you can think of that might give Michael cause to rethink his actions.

“This counts as one of your five nights, Michael…”

The rubbing ceases. He looks up, eyes hooded, lips swollen, wits frayed by lustful ferocity. “WHAT?”

“Whatever you do here, Michael, by cover of these trees, will count as one night.”

To show you what he thinks of such a notion, Michael pulls his hand out from under your dress and pinches your nipple between his wet thumb and forefinger.

“OW!”

Michael repeats the action on the other breast.

“OW!!!”

“This isn’t even a bedroom,” he snarls, returning his hands to your breasts and hefting them lovingly. “I cannot possibly do all that I intend to do with you out here, where we might be discovered.”

“My thoughts exactly,” you agree. “So, for your THIRD night, you shall have to plan better, won’t you?”

Michael blinks. There is such a tantalizing danger in his expression. His lips quirk. “If you wished for THIS to be your second night, pet, you could have just asked nicely. We shall simply reconvene in my bedroom in a few hours, once Lady Snow’s tiresome guests have gone to bed.”

“W-what?” you stammer. “But y-you have already used this night! There can’t be stopping and starting!”

“Should we continue then?”

“NO! You have already claimed what is yours to claim…”

“What? By playing with your breasts in a hemlock grove?” Michael sneers. “By fingering your hot little quim under your dress? I hardly think that counts…”

“It counts for me!” you say ridiculously.

You turn to pull away, but Michael captures your wrists and pins them to the tree. He leans in to whisper against your cheek. “I shall demand much more of you tonight, chit. Know that.”

With that, he turns and walks out of the grove, leaving you to pant in the twilight, with only the innocent company of the Tsuga dumosa, who came all the way from the Himalayas, and never asked to be privy to this.

……………………………………………

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse the delay in updating (as well as the probable typo-extravaganzaness), lovely readers! I have been recovering from a really nasty stomach flu and it made writing queasy and impossible. I shall try to be less tardy next time!  
> Thank you so much for your unbelievably kind support and engagement. (Even that time my elderly, aka, later-twenties ass wandered over to Tumblr to look at stuff and got STAR STRUCK, but did not know what was going on wit all the buttons and icons cus GRAMMA) I do not deserve your sweet words!!! But o my goodness, boy am I moved and grateful!!! THANK YOU!!!!  
> Sorry if this was a slow, or rambling or boring chapter! I will work to improve the next! 
> 
> Tolstoy fans might have caught the name ‘Hélène Kuragina’ and guessed that she is named after the beautiful, but treacherous first wife of Pierre Bezukhov in ‘War and Peace’. I kind of had that character in mind while conceiving of Lady Darwood (along with Netflix Castlevenia's Carmilla omg. queen.) To quote A$AP Rocky, I love bad bitches that’s my fucking problem! (Also, I know pitting two women kind of against one another and it being over a dude is SOOOOOOO lame and retrograde, but hopefully, I will be able to deepen the conflict a little bit, and flesh out Isabella's humanity some more in coming chapters. Also, unfortunately, this is where my id wants to go. Goodbye values, hello escapist romance writing...)  
> Isabella remembers that her initial charm offensive on a young Michael Landon involved quoting from Machiavelli’s ‘The Prince’. Cus of course.  
> The book by Hobbes with the famous engraving on the cover that Y/n started reading was ‘Leviathan’. The book that succeeded in capturing her interest (the one about the two sisters) was ‘Sense and Sensibility’ by Jane Austen, who initially published it anonymously as ‘By a Lady’.  
> Y/n makes a comment about being good material for one of William Hogarth’s narrative panels. If you have not had the pleasure, check out his paintings and illustrations, they are biting and hilarious and really offer a view into his world.  
> People legit snorted tobacco into their nostrils from fancy pants snuff boxes all the time in the regency era. Hacking and coughing were the unglamorous consequence.  
> Hope to update super duper soon!  
> Thank you again for bearing with me!!!  
> Much, much love!


	7. Chapter 7

“Love knows no virtue, no merit; it loves and forgives and tolerates everything because it must. We are not guided by reason...”

― Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, Venus in Furs

…………………………………………………………………………

“Y/n’s headaches have been making her terribly unsociable of late,” pronounces Madison, drawing a brush through the golden silk of her hair.

The girls have retired for the evening and are adjourned in Coco’s bedroom where your absence- caused by Michael Langdon’s claiming of his second night- is conspicuous.  

“If only Y/n and Crumpet were allowed to switch places,” Coco whines, bending to kiss the panting Pomeranian in her lap. “My little Princess simply adores to strut and, exhibit herself, don’t you? But mean Lady Snow makes you stay in here all by yourself, doesn’t she? O my poor little crumb!” She nuzzles Crumpet again and coos with delight when the pup laps at her nostrils.

“I am sure that she had a grand time in here, humping the furniture,” remarks Madison, pulling a short orange hair from one of the pillows.

Coco gazes down at the dog adoringly. “You’d swear she was sprung from my womb…” she says.

“Lord Chesterton was paying y/n such particular attentions tonight, and she did not even seem to notice,” points out Queenie, breathing out blissfully as she pulls off her stays and lays them on the bed.

“She missed the lemon ice,” adds Madison, “and the moment Lady Snow called Lady Darwood a ‘Barque of Frailty’ within earshot...”

“I do hope that she is all right,” says Queenie. “I so wished to ask her advice on how to deal with Algie’s mother. Y/n is good with old people.”

“That is because none of them think that she is mad enough to attempt to marry their sons,” says Madison. “How one treats a person depends upon how great a threat they present to their own enterprises. Or,” she adds spotting the large wet stain Crumpet has left on the floor, “their carpets.”  

“In any case, we shall all have to have our wits about us tomorrow,” says Zoe sagely. “This place is riddled with members of the Brimstone Society and I, for one, am determined to find out what they are planning for their next meeting.

………………………………..

Your oak bed at Snow Hall is larger than the entirety of your bedroom in the cottage you lived in with your Papa before he decided to go abroad. The covers and hangings are purple damask with patterns of coiling sprigs of flowers. The ‘Diana, Goddess of the Hunt’ theme that pervades the house continues here with the bed posts, which are carved with chasing foxes, and fleeing hares.

In the centre of the room looms a truly luxurious feature: a clawfoot bathtub which a pair of Lady Snow’s maids have taken pains to fill with steaming water by the time you shuffle back upstairs.

But barely have you had time to experience the glory of hot water, and pink suds enrobing your body with the sweet smells of lavender and Elysium, then do you notice the envelope that rests, like an omen, on the small table next to the bed.

Rising from the tub, you wrap yourself in one of the fluffy towels folded on the nearby chair, careful not to drip too much upon Lady Snow’s stag-covered carpet.

Once you have dried yourself and donned a nightgown of sturdy white cambric, you all but leap to the envelope.

Inside, there is a square of paper marked with neat, spikey script that reads:

‘I will come to you.’

-M

Alarm seizes you: what if Lucy, or one of Lady Snow’s chambermaids, chanced to see this note? But then, is it not naïve to think that Michael has not orchestrated your encounter with anything short of clockwork precision? Very likely, the Duke has agents within this household, feeding him information and providing him with rings of keys.

Probably, you think, you should get into that monstrosity of a bed, pull the covers up to your chin and await your fate while praying for Duke-ly mercy. You do this, and immediately feel like one of the unfortunate brides in Mr. Polidori’s ‘The Vampyre’.

There is a heartbeat high in your throat as you stare up at the repeating patterns of damask. Perhaps, you think, if you simply close your eyes, and close your heart, to whatever Michael plans to do to you tonight, all will be right.

You wait interminable minutes then hear a key in the door.

Michael Langdon slinks into your room still wearing his evening clothes. He is holding a bottle of brandy. He smiles at you as though this were a welcome rendezvous, between two bosom friends.

“Whatever you plan to do, you ought do it quietly,” is the first invective that falls from your lips.

Michael laughs. “I’ve never had trouble with that, chit,” he says. “But we shall see how YOU do.”

You rise from the bed, feeling foolish for waiting there to be mauled like a Walpole heroine.

“Care for a drink?” offers Michael.

You shrug and walk over to him. You are surprised, though you suppose you should not be, when Michael, in lieu of a glass, brings the tip of his big bottle of brandy to your lips and tips the contents onto your tongue. You take a few sips and grimace.

“Lady Snow would be appalled by your opinion of her house specialty,” he remarks.

“Lady Snow would be appalled by a great many things that are to happen here tonight, Michael,” you say.

“Nevertheless, I thought some mode of celebration was in order after the passing of your pet prison reform bill last week.”

“O Michael!” you say, and immediately cringe at the profusion of gratitude in your voice. “When I heard the news about the Newgate Bill, I could hardly believe it.”

Michael’s expression is inscrutable. “Why should it come as a surprise to you?” he asks.

“I- I just did not think it would ever happen. I had begun to doubt that anything could push the bill through. Even Lady Cordelia was convinced that Lord Goring, who was our only real hope, would vote against it.”

“And yet you wasted such energies, not to mention risked your reputation, to publish your Newgate Pamphlet,” says Michael with snarl. “I suppose it paid off for you. In the end.”   

You feel horribly awkward correlating the… pleasant time that you and Michael had last time you were together with his decision to push the Coven’s favorite bill into being. To do so is to assume that the Duke of Langdon wishes to reward you, which makes you feel as though you have been purchased. Or does he mean to win over your favor? He would not. He need not. “I would never presume to think that my pamphlet had anything to do with it,” you say. 

“False modesty has no place in my presence,” says Michael sharply.

“I’m not being modest!”

“You made some salient points in your pamphlet,” Michael says, ignoring you. “It was dreadfully disorganized, of course, and your prose relied rather too heavily on pathos for my liking. But Lord Goring was easily convinced when I had the document reformatted and delivered to him.”

You blink. “Y-you used my pamphlet to c-convince Lord Goring?”

“Yes,” replies Michael. “Does his literacy come as a surprise to you? I admit, it did me.” His bored, ironic tone does not quite manage to dull the compliment in the way, you suspect, he desires.

“I am surprised he would respond to my arguments,” you admit.

“So little faith…” says Michael with a tut. “Tell me, Ms. Y/n, how do you propose to take on the wide, devouring world when you harbor such pathetic uncertainties regarding your own powers, rhetorical, and otherwise?”

You elect to jump over that particular question as though it were a muddy brook on a Sunday morning walk into town. “I thought you might have used some other, more nefarious means to bend the House of Lords to your will, Michael. It is not modesty, but cynicism that led me to conclude this.”

The corner of the Duke’s mouth quirks. “To be fair, I DID have to threaten one of the Lords to hold the meeting in the first place. But I prefer to achieve my ends through legitimate means whenever possible. It keeps things interesting- and makes the ‘more nefarious’, as you put it, all the more delicious.”

If he was simply amoral, simply a scoundrel, and never actually hurt people, you tell yourself, it would not be unreasonable to find Michael Langdon utterly irresistible at this moment.

“I never got to thank you,” you say a little timidly.

Michael’s voice lowers. “You WILL thank me, swot. Never fear.”

You know not what form this ‘thanking’ will take, but you are not so clueless that your stomach does not flutter upon hearing that.

Michael places his bottle on the chair. Then, with a ferocity you were not expecting, he encircles your wrists with his warm hands and pulls you into a sense stealing kiss.

You respond with shameful, melting immediacy.

“I do not like your nightgown,” he says when you part for air. “You look like a nun.”

“I do not like your tailcoat,” you snap back. “You look like a preening peacock that has fallen into a barrel of wine.” You are lying, of course. It is a lovely colour on Michael.

Michael’s lagoon bright eyes fill with amusement. He shrugs off his tailcoat and lays it neatly upon an armchair near the hearth. Then, his shirt comes off too. And his pants. All are neatly folded, leaving only his britches on. He looks at you, as though he is expecting the same curtesy.

And you do not know if it is Lady Snow’s overly strong brandy, or whatever madness has you in its grip, but you bring your hands obligingly down to the hem of your cambric nightgown, and pull it up your body, over your head. In one, smooth motion, you are naked, much to Michael Langdon’s slack jawed astonishment.

“And to think, I was going to defer this night,” he breathes before pulling you to his face again, and devouring. “I am glad you forced the issue,” he says as his hands find your breast and knead gently.

“I most certainly DID NOT ‘force the issue’,” you argue, even as you throw your head back into his waiting palm, to allow your throat to be kissed.

You are barely aware of his strong arms lifting you, handling you as though you were spun from glass, until you are halfway to the bed. Michael lays you down to sit with him in the middle of the rumpled counterpane.

“How is your ass?” he asks, as though it were a perfectly normal inquiry for a gentleman to make of a lady.

Shame rises to your face as you recall the…spanking. “It is good.”

The Duke looks down at his own hands, not quite abashed. “Perhaps I should have warned you about my more… unorthodox predilections.”

“You did, a little,” you say, in the name of fairness.

“You did not seem to mind,” Michael ventures. He is being coy. He knows better.

“I liked it,” you answer plainly. You are determined to say no more. You have expressed the bare minimum. Surely, he understands the rest.

You turn away but hear the great hiss of Michael’s breath as it is released and feel the hot sibilance against your cheek. “You liked it VERY much, I think,” he recalls.

“Yes. Is it not odd?”

“Odd?”   

“Yes.”

“Why?”

It is a fair thing to ask, while you are on the subject. But how do you describe to him something which you yourself cannot understand? How do you admit to your enemy that the truest part of you is deviant and defiled? That you are a lost soul? What else could you be, when you crave every morsel of attention the Duke is willing to give, even his cruelty and punishment?

When you turn to look at Michael, you cannot gauge his expression. His shoulders have dropped, as though he has been holding them locked and rigid all this while without you even noticing. His beautiful face looks pained. And tired. So tired. You find yourself wondering if Michael has not been sleeping well of late…

You do the most reckless thing imaginable then, you lay your hand over his. He does not recoil.

“What is it, Michael?” you say.

Michael swallows before turning to look at you. “If I were a decent man,” he says, “I could take my pleasures with you by many different means, eliciting mutual satisfaction. I could drive you insensate with pleasure, and still leave you a maid. Had I a shred of nobility in my being, I would not take from you that whose loss would preclude you from any prospect of making a ‘proper match’. If I were better, I would spare your virginity.” He pauses, allowing the low, heated resonance of what he has said permeate the space between you. “But I am not good, Ms. Y/n. I intend to rob you of everything.”

“Can one ‘rob’ that which is freely given, Michael?”

The words have an effect on him. You can tell by the way the blue-jade of his eyes grows slightly watery, and shimmers in the dark, like a jungle cat’s.

Michael has never known such soaring hope in all his life. If he allows it to fill him completely, he knows that he will be driven insane by disappointment. So, he presses it down deep into the dark place where his screaming heart resides.

“It is dangerous, Ms. Y/n, to presume that you hold more power in the situation than you do.”

“I do not presume anything,” you say calmly. “I know that we are not equals.”

“We are not,” agrees Michael, but in his mind, the truth rings out louder than a hall of trumpets: ‘BECAUSE YOU ARE MY SUPERIOR IN EVERY WAY!’

“How could I think that I come to your bed ‘an equal’ Sir?” you ask, declining, rather pointedly, to use his Christian name. “Your position in the world is inconceivably higher than my own. You have every privilege over me, and that makes your claim upon me all the more reprehensible.”

“My ‘claim’ is rooted in your volition,” Michael reminds you coldly.  

“Ah!” you say with a bitter laugh. “And what ‘volition’ it is, born of contempt and blackmail!”

The Duke’s mouth tightens. “Am I to be blamed for your choices? Is it my fault that you played your hand foolishly? You have made me your arbiter, and your master, Ms. Y/n, to do with you what I wish. Regretting it will not absolve you of the responsibility.”

In that moment you hate Michael more than you ever thought possible. It is hatred rendered all the more violent by virtue of your OTHER feelings for him.

“You need not remind me,” you say. “I do not need your lecturing. I know that I am a speck of dirt to you, an evening’s diversion, a ‘woefully unmerited preference’ as you once put it.”

Michael winces at the remembrance. “Do you really feel this to be true, Ms. Y/n?”

“I know this to be true.”

Incredulity flits across his harsh countenance. “But what do you FEEL, you insolent chit?” The knife edge in his voice warns you that naught but truth will be tolerated here and now.

“I- I do not know,” you stutter.

“You DO know, Ms. Y/n, you are merely evading.”

“It is confusing!” you snap. But you calm yourself, sensing the importance of the perilous bridge you are about to cross. “Very well. There are times, when.. when it feels different between us.”

“Go on.”

You turn away from Michael, electing to address, instead, the golden candelabra poised upon the armoire. “It is a false feeling, I know. Please do not fear that I take it at all seriously…” You trail off, closing your eyes against the impending wave of your confession.  

“What have you to say, Ms. Y/n?” Michael demands. There is an urgency in his voice, which you choose, in that moment, to interpret as irritation.

“When we are together,” you say, feeling yourself tremble despite the hearth, “I feel all of the hierarchies of the world melt. I exist purely as myself and nothing else.” You hesitate, knowing that Michael will mock you mercilessly but deciding that you no longer care. “I am relieved of the insignia of ‘unmarried burden of an orphaned female’. I become something other than the skin I am in, and at the same time, I inhabit my body more fully than I ever imagined possible. I feel total power. And at the same time, the full limits of it.” You let out a nervous laugh. “What a paradox! I feel- Last week, at your home, I was naught but a creature. I become YOUR creature, Michael. And you become mine. And then we returned to the world. And we were worse than strangers.” You cower, remembering yourself, remembering whom you are addressing, and how these possessive, ridiculous words must sound to him.

You look down at the sweaty hands that you have clasped in your lap, not meeting his eye, unable to bear the scorn.

“H-have I repulsed you?” you ask.

The dizzying speed with which Michael grasps your wrists, presses you into the duvet, and insinuates his clothed manhood against your naked quim, indicates how grossly you have misinterpreted the situation. Rather than answering with words, he looms over you and stares. His breathing is ragged. His gaze drips with venom and lust, as though the impulse to crush you and the impulse to make love to you are duelling in his mind with no quarter being given to either.

Molten heat is radiating from the space between your thighs. You feel your own heartbeat there, throbbing like a drum against the impossibly warm, engorged organ in Michael’s britches. Your nipples harden against his chest like pebbles.

You steal a glance downward at the pressed planes of your bodies, and this seems to snap something in Michael. He swoops down and bites your neck harshly. You cry out and he proceeds to tongue the spot with aching, gentle madness, then lavishes your neck with scores of open-mouthed kisses.

“Michael…” you say. Regrettably, it is a plea to continue.

Michael answers by grunting and reaching down to cup your quim with his broad, strong palm. “So wet,” he rasps against your throat. He lets out a deep rumble of appreciation and the waft of mint assails your nostrils. “What would all your friends think if they knew who was in your room?”

Michael’s taunt calls ice water into your veins, even as it arouses you. Why? Why should you be excited to think of such things?

“If only they could see what a slut you are…” breathes Michael, tracing the lips of your quim with his forefinger. You push yourself against him, wanton that you are, grinding up to meet his hand as though it is the only solidly material object in the whole friction-less universe. Michael chuckles as he removes his hand. “What do you need?” he snarls nastily. The pervading black spheres in his eyes are the only indication of his mutual helplessness.

“You know what…” you whisper, as though this is an acceptable answer.

Michael pinches your nipple harshly. Then, he raises himself off of you, and off the bed.

You actually whimper at the loss of him. You look up, desolate as a sky that has shed its stars for the light of morning.

“I need you to touch my quim,” you grate out, hoping that the bluntness- AND SPECIFICITY- of the words will count for something. Then, averting your eyes as if in recognition of your rotton, entitled nature, you add, “Please.”

Michael makes a circuit round the bed. He sneers in consideration of the request. Turning his beautiful back to you, he walks to the clothing neatly folded against the armchair by the fireplace. From deep within a pocket of his merlot coloured topcoat, he pulls out two ribbons of black silk.

With no great rush, Michael finds his way back to you, pausing to admire the rise and fall of your breasts, and caress the pointing tips with the pads of his thumbs. When he asks, “Do I have your permission to tie you to these bedposts, Y/n?”, it does not occur to you to do ought else but nod.

It is not lost on you, lust drunk though you are, that he has used your Christian name for the first time in your acquaintance. You would be lying if you claimed it did not make the pathetic thing in your chest soar like a seagull.

“Would you like it if I tied you up and made you gush all over my fingers?” Michael asks casually.  

“Yes,” you say, too quickly. Your eagerness earns a low laugh from him. “You are keening to be at my mercy, pet,” he observes. “You might imagine that, because you have confessed to me your perverse enjoyment in last week, I might look kindly upon you tonight; that I might be… lenient.” Michael smiles. “That is an error.”

You swallow.

Once your arms are splayed above your head and firmly attached to the oak bed posts, Michael sits next to you and admires his handiwork. He is so close, yet, with your wrists bound, you are powerless to reach for him. It is an exquisite kind of agony. Your quim is throbbing with need.

“Have you thought about our time together last week?” asks Michael, breathing in the smell of your arousal as his hand trails a scalding line from your collar bone to your stomach. “And do be honest, girl,” he says, reaching the folds of your labia, and lightly tracing before slipping in a finger. He slides it out, and rubs the slickness between his thumb and forefinger, examining the gathered, viscous fluid with a detached, almost clinical demeaner than belies the shallow nature of his breaths. “Nobody likes a liar.”

“Yes,” you admit. “I have thought about it.” The remembrance of your first night with Michael has played like an endless kaleidoscope in your mind.

“You remembered how I bound your hands and spanked that naughty bottom red?”

“Yes,” you admit, even as embarrassment sears your face

“What an incurable slut. And to think I have not even fucked you yet.”

‘Yet’. O how that word liquifies your quim! A single word, and therein, a universe of promise.

Michael looks over your body and cocks one eyebrow. “But then again, prolific onanist that you are, why should I be surprised?”

PROLIFIC ONANIST?

Last week, you admitted to Michael that you have touched yourself, in THAT way, before. But what has given him the idea that you are ‘prolific’ in this activity? Most nights, you share a bed with Coco. What does he think? That you are rubbing yourself, right there next to your slumbering cousin?

Of course, in the last few nights, you have been alone in your room at Goode Manor…

Thinking about your first night with Michael… things DID happen.

But, still, you are hardly the Walter Scott of interfering with yourself!

You open your mouth to protest, when Michael shocks you by uttering: “I imagined you touching yourself and it made me crazed.”

Your turn your cheek into the pillow.

“Look at me, strumpet,” he commands. You do. In the golden aura of candlelight, Michael looks both beautiful and mad.

“You would love it if I touched you now, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Beg, then.”

“P-please.”

You look down to see Michael’s hand hovering over your quim and think ‘Yes. Yes, this is worth the last burnt kernel of my dignity.’ His palm is damp with your excretions. There is no denying the total, animal betrayal of your body.

“’Please’ what? You could mean anything. You could be asking me to ‘please’ give you my opinion on your attire earlier this evening- which was by the way: ‘abysmal’.”

“Please make me come, Michael,” you beg, ignoring his comment about your lovely white muslin.

His face fills, quite suddenly, with a cruel semblance of compassion.

And that is when you know that you are going to suffer.

With breathtaking slowness, he palms your quim, then glides in two ringed fingers. He pumps in and out long enough to make your pant and rub against him shamelessly. You move in tandem with him, savoring the intrusion. When you look up at Michael, his eyes are rivetted to your quim. The sight of it swallowing his fingers, again and again seems to deliver him to some higher plane of existence. He groans, as though it is HE who is being tormented. Then, without warning, as though released from some spell, he removes his hand and lifts from the bed entirely.

You stare at him, biting your bottom lip in a conscious attempt to keep from whining.

Michael paces, allowing his breath to even, letting silence permeate the air and pickle you in frustration.

“You know, Y/n, you were terribly rude in that grove of trees this evening.” For all his aloofness, you detect a sickening swell of pleasure in his voice. The Duke catches your devastated expression and laughs. “What? Did you think to dictate rules to me, to make demands, and to be REWARDED for such insolence?”

If you are honest with yourself, yes, you did. But you say nothing.

It is an awkward moment to realize that there are tears streaming down your face. It is mere tension, you know. The build up. A subverted expectation of release. But knowing this does not stop the pathetic little sob that is wrenched from your throat when Michael says: “I might just leave you here, all trussed up with your cunt dribbling for the maid to find in the morning.”

“Please don’t,” you beg, even though, you are fairly certain that he won’t.

“Then tell me what you thought about when you touched yourself, you filthy girl.”

It occurs to you to hold back the truth from Michael. But coming up with a lie seems like rather a labor at the moment.

“I- I thought about…” -O DEAR GOD, ARE YOU ACTUALLY GOING TO SAY IT? - “I thought about your cock.”

You shrink back against the pillows, expecting the immediate conflagration of your body, followed by the conflagration of Snow Hall, followed by the conflagration of the entire world. When no flames arrive, you exhale, and chide yourself for being solipsistic; what do the earth, ocean, or sky care if you talk about the Duke’s cock? When you look up, the expression on Michael’s face turns your skin to gooseflesh. Perhaps, you did not fully comprehend his earlier meaning about him being made ‘crazed’. Licking your lips, you follow the pale, sinuous line of his throat as he swallows.

“What. Precisely. Did. You. Imagine?”

“I imagined…” you stop and breathe in, corralling all of your courage to say the unspeakable thing that must be spoken. “I imagined p-putting my mouth on it. Licking it. And… sucking it.” You stare past Michael at the carriage clock above the mantle. “It’s not something that I invented!” you rush to say. “There are these engraving I saw once in my Uncle’s libra-”

Michael cuts you off by striding to the bed, looming over you and fingering your quim savagely.

“O my god!” you shout, as abrupt, blinding pleasure is milked from you.

“Do you think I care to hear your musings about ENGRAVINGS?” Michael says harshly.

“No.”

He looks utterly transported by lust as his fingers play in your cunt. It amazes you how quickly you forget to feel foolish and give in, as your eyes roll back, and you are driven close, so achingly close, to the apotheosis of ecstasy…

But Michael stops again. And, as though nothing happened, returns to pacing the room. Panic grips you, Does he intend to deny you?

“What kind of a filthy slut loves to be spanked and imagines her mouth stuffed with the cock of her nemesis?” wonders Michael out loud, as though the question is a philosophical mystery that has puzzled Aristotle and Descartes alike, and rivened western thought into two discordant schools…

“Have you ever even seen a man’s cock before, Y/n?” asks Michael, growing very serious.

You blanch. “No, Sir. Never. Except in-” You won’t say ‘engravings’. “In pictures, Sir.”

Michael smiles as though he has read your thoughts. He turns to face you; his lean muscles and loosely curling hair are backlit by the orange glow of the hearth. He does not break your gaze as he lowers his hands to his waistband. You breath catches as he unbuttons his britches and, in a languid motion, allows them to drop to the floor. Your heart forgets exactly what it is that a heart does as you are faced with the Duke of Langdon, entirely nude. In that instant, a new storm is ushered into your quiet little life. You realize, with crashing clarity, how meagre your understanding of the male form has been up until now. Your inner library of anatomical diagrams and the tastefully miniaturized, antiquity-cocks has not prepared you for anything like this. But it is not merely the phallus. Or the buttocks. Or the unexpected veins and grooves and lines of musculature. It is the CONTEXT. The sight of Michael Langdon naked is so arousing that it makes you fall more deeply in love with nature itself, with the sublime order and chaos that forms the mechanism of the world. His beauty both exalts and mocks you. It is like the pierce of one of Diana’s divine arrows. The arms fastened to the bedposts move instinctively toward him, straining against the bands of silk. You swallow thickly and will your eyes to remain upon Michael. You look at him. You look with abandon. For on how many more occasions will fate single you out to bear witness to perfection? You should be here, fully, now. You should look until it makes you blind.

The Duke is, you know without requiring evidence, rather larger in comparison to most men, and so erect that he could slice through dry wall. You imagine taking this perfect, pink member within yourself. What an impossible seeming proposition…

Michael drinks in your stunned expression and it seems to inflate him. He is grinning so smugly that you find yourself wishing someone would pin a grape leaf where the sun LONGS to shine.

Although, it would probably require a great MANY grape leaves.   

“You’re going to leave a puddle on Lady Snow’s duvet,” Michael informs you, gesturing between your thighs. “If I touch you, there may be no limit to your licentiousness.” His tone is chastising, as though it is not HE that has pushed you past the border of sanity. “And if I allow you to touch me, you may be imprinted with the false belief that impertinence earns you my cock.”

Burning shame does not stop you from staring, slack jawed, as Michael runs a had over his own rigid penis. You should very much like to explore the hydrodynamics of this organ, and how it might relate to Pascal’s Law. But more so, you would like to feel it in your hand, because Coco says touching a man’s cock extorts from him many utterances of bliss.

“Should I touch you, or untie you?” says Michael, sliding his hand up and down his cock as he watches you squirm.

You let out a small hiss of frustration.  

“Show me your quim,” Michael commands. “I might take pity.”

You blink. But you ARE showing him, you think. There is not a stitch between his vision and your naked, recumbent form.  

“No, foolish girl,” he grits, stroking himself. “Spread your thighs. I want to see.”

O dear god.

You screw your eyes shut and allow your knees to fall apart, offering up your glistening centre to be appraised. You are dripping for him, you know. You can feel the damp under your ass. Even if you wished to, the fact that you are tied to the bed, renders escape an impossibility. Whatever Michael does, you will lie back and take it. Whatever he commands, you will obey.

“Beautiful,” he pronounces. His focus makes your heart surge.

Michael walks to the bed, glowing like the reprobate Prince of Hell, with his cock swinging between his legs, captivated by the mess he has made of you.  

When he reaches you, he bends down and kisses you hard, as though he means to punish. You arch up into the kiss, and twine tongues with him, hoping to lock him there where some part of you can touch. But Michael pulls away with a scornful smacking noise.

His fingers find and part your labia, gliding against the accumulated juices, groaning as he grasps himself with his other hand. You press into his touch. The unbearable zenith of pleasure is fast approaching, you sense. As if intuiting this, Michael attends to you fully, abandoning his weeping cock to plunge two fingers into you as those of his other hand roll circles in that other, familiar spot. It is an overabundance of sensation, this two-handed onslaught. You bite your lip to stifle a scream. Something otherworldly happens when Michael’s fingers curl inside of you, rubbing against a soft interior wall… exerting a pressure that feels almost like…

“LET GO,” Michael orders. And your body does so. Your body does not think to object. Not when an orgasm unfurls somewhere deep and new and spreads to roar through your body. Not even when your cunt begins to pulse and gush obscenely, not even when warm liquid shoots, like a natural geyser toward the thick, rosy spear of Michael’s cock, drenching it, drenching everything, rendering you nearly unconscious.

It is the most powerful physical experience you have ever had.  

You feel entirely cleansed. Totally emptied. You give yourself over to tears, not from any unhappiness, but from the overwhelming sensation that you are, for the first time after a life wholly submerged in dirt, breathing air at last.

It should horrify you to see the bed soaked by your cunt, to see the golden planes of Michael’s chest, thighs, and iron hard cock smattered with droplets of what you can only assume is some kind of poorly advertised feminine essence. And it does a little. But you do not strictly care.

You slump against the pillows as though your soul has vacated your body and set up shop elsewhere. You gaze at Michael through drooping lids, preparing yourself for a world of derision.

In his eyes, instead, there is ineffable longing. In his voice there is undeniable dominion. But, beneath it, surrender, and (dare you think?) tenderness. “I will untie you now,” he says.

You nod your acquiescence.

“Good Girl,” croons Michael, and the approbation pulls at your wet quim. To think that you could be thus sated and still wish for more! Are all females thus? Or merely slatterns like you? If you had not heard Coco wax poetic about the joys of ‘having one’s quim rogered until one sees stars’, you would be convinced that you are an accident of some sort.

You try not to stare at Michael’s cock as he is untying you. Fear and trepidation are seeping back into your bloodstream. You sniff and tremble.

“Shhhhhhhhhh, it is all right, little swot,” he murmurs.

Michael’s hands are warm and reassuring as he, with greatest of care, rubs feeling back into your wrists. After he has finished with the left, he turns your hand over in his palm, and bends to lay a gentle, lingering kiss on the inside of your wrist.

“I am sorry that I, um, sprayed everywhere,” you say.

“I am not,” says Michael. Your eyes trail downward, and you cannot help but notice that he is still, even as he is offering comfort, rather ruthlessly engorged.

“M-may I touch it?” you ask, looking at his penis.

The urgent, guttural way Michael says, “Yes,” thrills you.

Your hand descends to collide with the softest human skin that you have ever felt, pulled taut over steel.

His eyes flutter. His mouth parts to take panting breaths. By doing do little, so much can be accomplished.

You close your hand very lightly over the throbbing cylinder and are surprised and to feel it twitch like a live thing.

Michael growls, a helpless, animal sound which you would commit any mayhem to have the pleasure of hearing again. His eyes are only a third of the way open as he watches you, nostrils flaring, golden brows knit as though he is labouring to win a battle, but certain he will lose. Michael is slowly slipping the bonds of his own restraint.

And YOU are the catalyst of this.

YOU have made Michael Langdon thus.

It is YOU he needs. He may deny the truth. He may attempt to contain it with all the powers at his disposal: rudeness, status, his natural sexual sadism. But you have roused something deep.  

You stroke up his shaft. Michael moans. Breathless with excitement, you do it again. But his hand comes down to close tightly against your wrist to cease the ministrations.

“Enough,” he grates out.

You cast him a puzzled look.

“Do you still want to be fucked?” he demands harshly.

You nod, even as your heart careens to stillness.

Michael brings his palm to your cheek. You turn and rub into it like a cat.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. Michael. Quite certain.”

Black coal has subsumed the glacial silt of his yes. If anything, your request to ‘be fucked’ should be fuel for gloating. You half expect him to preen like a conquistador recently returned from the Americas, his ships leaden with stolen gold. Instead, Michael’s expression is saturated with awe and indecision. He cradles your face for a moment, as though too stunned to move. Some unfathomable battle is raging within him. The only thing of which you are certain is his desire. And tonight, Michael’s desire is your authority.   

“It will change nothing,” he says, bringing his hand to trail down your cheek. His fingers graze your jaw before lowering slowly and wrapping around your throat.

The pressure he exerts is infinitesimally light, but all of your senses race with awareness of it. Michael’s thumb and forefinger press gently against the pulse points on the underside of your chin. He can feel your heartbeat there, you know, rushing to meet him.

A faint, terrible smile plays upon his lips as he watches your face, then the line of your throat. “You are afraid…” he half whispers.

It occurs to you that Michael COULD kill you. For all his litheness and elegance, he is extremely strong. But you smile at him, close your eyes, and sink the weight of your head into his hand, leaving him to wonder if it is a gesture of submission or one of conquest.

When you open your eyes, you are stirred to see that Michael’s expression has changed. He caresses your throat and gazes at you like an acolyte before the altar of their choosing. He brings his hands down to grip your shoulders. Your lips touch. You luxuriate in the warmth of his tongue. Sinking down again against the pillows, you feel the piping heat of his manhood against the skin of your thigh. You grind up against him, rubbing against the jutting erection until Michael makes a sound of dismay.

“Stop that,” he hisses. “It is to be your first time, and, at this rate, I fear it will be interminably brief.”

“Brief?”

“You have me too aroused,” Michael confesses, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“That does not matter,” you say, as though you are some kind of authority on what ‘matters’ in such situations and what does not.  

Michael raises his head. “You really know very little about this,” he pronounces.

You frown and reach down to cup the delicately haired heft of his testicles with your fingers. It is at this moment that you choose to lay upon him the- incredibly sophisticated, in your opinion- line that you have always imagined saying out loud, if fortune ever conspired to deliver you a lover: “I lack experience, but not imagination.”

“I can see that…” Michael professes, arching an eyebrow even as he sighs in response to the attentions being paid to his bollocks. “You’ll be the death of me, minx. Enough of that.” He pushes your hand away.

His fingers find your quim in ruthless retaliation. You gasp against his jaw. Stubble is forming there, you note. The scrape of it feels intimate and personal.

Michael stops and positions himself between your legs, supported on his elbows. Your arms float up to embrace him.

He said that this would change nothing. But already you are changing. Or perhaps, merely giving in to knowledge that was already there. Tears pool at your eyes as the head of Michael’s cock presses against the portal of your body. He watches your face as he pushes in, drinking in every furrow and grimace.

The sting of pain that arrives is fleeting, and, even in the moment of its rousing, seems distant, like pain that belongs to another girl. The pleasure and singing joy of accepting Michael into your body overpowers every other feeling.

Michael holds himself in blistering control, but that control is tested the moment the thick length of his cock is enveloped.

He remains still.   

“Christ, you’re tight…”

You exhale, feeling every vein and slope of his cock as it takes residence within the grateful walls of your quim. Following a primordial instinct, you wiggle your hips up. This results in magnificent friction where your bodies are fused and wins a strangled groan from Michael.

“Does it hurt?” he practically gasps.

“No.”

Michael takes this as his cue to move, slowly, at first. In and out. You bring your legs to hook around him in encouragement. His pace quickens.  

You moan too loudly. The sound causes Michael to still and rifle for something near the foot of the bed. You startle a little when he produces a handkerchief.

“Open you mouth,” he orders.

You look up at him fitfully but obey. The sound of your consternation is stifled by the handkerchief as it is balled and stuffed into your mouth.

“I love your filthy mouth, my angel,” whispers Michael, pressing a kiss to your temple. “But we cannot have you waking the entire household.”

With that out of the way, he resumes fucking you.  

Events will occur, AFTERWARDS. There will be a world of consequences, AFTERWARDS. But all that matters now, is the feeling of Michael pumping into your quim, filling you so perfectly that it is doubtful you will feel anything but bereft afterwards

“Your cunt is perfect, Y/n,” Michael professes feverishly. “I’ll have to make the most of my nights from now on. Every moment I am not licking or fucking it will be a waste…”  

Your murmur of approval for this plan is muffled by the makeshift gag.

Above yours, Michael’s face is sleek with exertion. His mouth forms a syllable that might, in another context, be mistaken for pain. His eyes glaze over, full of otherworldly green fire. It is as though he might die.

You are already hurtling toward climax when Michael’s two, clever fingers begin to circle above where you are joined. It becomes too much. You break apart beneath him, spasming with a rapture that fractures your vision into grains of white.

“Yes, that’s it… Spend for me…” Michael urges. And he keeps thrusting.

You ride out your ecstasy, then shudder with the aftershocks. Michael kisses your face, then throws his head back. The chorded muscles of his throat strain. His lips are sealed so tightly that the area around them is turning pale. It excites you to witness the harrowing effort necessary for Michael to stifle his noises in the populated home of Lady Myrtle Snow. In the same breath, you mourn the pleasure of hearing him, and think that it would not be a bad idea if you conspired to make the third night happen in one of the Duke’s private residences…

Michael looks down at you, and, in a sudden, trustful motion, rips the handkerchief from your mouth. You hold your mouth obediently shut, until his lips descend, claiming you with the fieriest of kisses. With a few knowing strokes of his fingers, Michael coaxes from you another shuddering orgasm, He swallows your cries this time, then fucks your mouth with his tongue in an erotic mirror of what is happening down below.   

You feel nails rake against your thigh as Michael thrusts one more time. Then, to your unreasoning dismay, he proceeds to slip out of you, and pull himself up.

Michael’s face spasms as the cock in his hand spurts forth an articulate arc of white, cloudy liquid. His seed feels hotter than candle wax as it falls upon your stomach.

You look down to where Michael has painted you, spellbound. There is a little blood smeared against the apex of your thighs. This is, as both Coco and Lucy have informed you on separate occasions, to be expected.

You feel the bed shift with his absence as Michael goes to retrieve a cloth and dip it into the now cold, perfumed water in the clawfoot bathtub.

You gaze upon the elegant damask of the bed hangings, then back to the mess of fluids drying on your body.

It has happened.

Your maidenhead, and your serenity, have been irrevocably pierced.

And instead of smoldering in a crater of your own ruin and weeping for your departed virtue while wondering just what sort of girl would allow this to happen to Lady Snow’s unsuspecting textiles, you are full of inexpressible joy.

No one but you and Michael will ever know about this.

And nothing, not even time, can make it less real.

You impatiently wipe the tears that stream from your eyes to your hairline. If you do not stop crying after such activities, you tell yourself, Michael might stop rogering you in favor of someone with stronger nerves.

Michael returns to clean you, silently, carefully, watching your face for hints of discomfort.

“Thank you,” you mumble.

“You express gratitude for the oddest things,” he says, almost fondly.

When your virgins’ blood and Michael’s seed have been entirely wiped, he strokes your hair and suggests that you take rest.

To your delight, he slips into bed next to you, and lays a casual, but possessive hand on your breast.

“Is it always like that, Michael? Between,” -you are too embarrassed to say ‘lovers’, “people?”

“Not always.”

There is a note of disquiet in his voice.

You wonder if you are meant to sleep like this and are soon answered by the sound of Michael’s breath deepening, as his eyes close.

You watch him for a while. The Duke is a different being when he sleeps- and it does seem like it has been rather a long time since he has done so. His brow is smooth, and his lips parted in innocence that is very nearly cherubic. The swell of feeling that rises in your chest as you watch him sends your mind to spiral in panic.

Exhausted as you are, you do not resist sleep when it claims you. But your dreams are fitful.

You dream of hell. It is a place more terrible than anything described by Milton. A white-faced demon with a familiar laugh presides over it all. You feel his malevolence drowning you, even as he lays his cold, clawed hand in your own.

You awaken with a jolt.

You are surprised to find Michael’s luminous eyes watching you. How long has he been awake?

“You had a nightmare,” he pronounces, something like concern threading his voice.

You nod and attempt to shake the fear from your body.

Michael is staring at you. That is when you do it. It is not even a decision. In the dregs of half sleep, you take a chance that you may never have taken moments later, with all of wits and faculties restored.

You raise yourself to sit. “Michael,” you ask, your voice tentative in the near darkness. “Did you kill John Henry Goode?”

There is a long silence.

“If I told you that I did not, would you believe me?”

The question strikes you as a vulnerable one. You pause and grant it consideration. “If you promised me you did not kill him, I would believe you.”

“Then I do promise. I did not kill him.”

Realizing that this could be technically true, but not entirely true, you press on. “W-was Lady Cordelia’s husband killed by your command?”

Another meaningful silence.

“Would it change what exists between us if he was?” asks Michael. His voice is not tinged with any emotion. Not even curiosity.

‘What exists between us’. How nice to have it acknowledged at last, pity it should be in such a circumstance.

You rise from the bed. And, naked though you are, face him resolutely. “What ‘exists between us’, Michael?”

Michael’s eyes are an abyss of black and blue as he springs from the bed and captures your chin harshly. “You KNOW what, heinous girl,” he seethes, glaring into you, his voice thrumming with anger and… hurt?

“I know nothing, Michael. Truly nothing. You have spoken to me of murders that you have either committed or participated in in the past. I am asking you a question now regarding a flesh and blood human being who is missed by his family and friends, who I know to have been a good man.”

Anger radiates from him like the uncoiling tentacles of a sea beast. “Did you think that if you surrendered your pitiful quim to me, I would spill all of my secrets for you to run back and recount to your so called ‘Coven’?” he asks, menacingly calm.

You can say nothing to this.

“Or perhaps,” Michael says, with even greater nastiness, “you imagine that by aggravating me, and courting my suspicion, you shall recuse yourself from your commitment to your three remaining nights?”

You stare at him and, even though your mind is mottled with contempt, you seem to hear the words beneath what he is actually saying… Michael, the Duke of Langdon, the foulest man in England, is insecure. The belief that you are trying to get out of your remaining nights with him has him acting like a schoolboy.

“Michael, that is not at all what I-”

“Because IF you are laboring under that impression,” he interrupts, “allow me assure you, in a manner as clear as I know how, that I would have no qualms about simply stuffing your mouth with a gag and taking what I want.”

He deserves to be punched for that, you think, in one of the more delicate areas. And perhaps you ought to. But you are too lost in the roil of your emotions to do anything. All you can think of is how to disabuse Michael of the notion that you do not wish to be with him again.

Your intended betrayal of him to the Coven seems almost secondary.

And, incidentally, how has that been going? Did you not promise to make Michael Langdon pay for his crimes? Did you not vow that he would rue the day he singled you out for his semi-public campaign of degradation?

Do you not STILL suspect him of murdering and ruining people?

“Michael,” you say. “It is clear that we must talk.”

“I do not require your conversation, insolent chit. I merely require the use of your body.” His eyes rake over you with contemptuous lust. “No doubt, you are beginning to understand that this can take many forms. Many of which require minimal participation on your part.”

Michael is working hard to be this awful, you know. But just because it takes effort, and you can SEE the effort, does not mean he should be absolved.

“You sold yourself cheaply, Y/n,” he sneers.

“You do not mean that.”

“Don’t I?” Michael’s eyes are wet, you notice, his body rigid. He is in pain.

“I know you don’t.” You step closer. He recoils. “What has made you this way, Michael?” you ask. Met with silence, you amend your question. “WHO has made you this way?”

Michael he stares at you for an endless moment. You are an angel with no thread of mercy, he thinks, tugging him into your light, little caring that is melts his bones.

“I care not to discuss my history with you,” he answers.

If you are disappointed, you do not show it. “I understand, Michael. It may be done in your own time. Or never at all.”

“At NO time will I take you into such a confidence, Y/n. Be assured of that.”

It is for your own good, Michael wishes he could tell you. He will not tell you because you are too precious to be sullied by knowledge of his past. He knows that you would not bear to look at him if you knew all that he had done...

“Very well.”

The truth is that you do not require a detailed explanation of how Michael Langdon was ‘broken’. You know of his late father, Leo’s, reputation. You have heard legends of his cruelty, and doubt that he spared his son the fullest force of it. The specifics, if you knew them, would doubtless break your heart. But what is worse is knowing that Michael lives in continued torment over events past. You find yourself wishing to ease his soul, to absorb all that troubles him into your big, sturdy heart.

But then again, why would Michael return to London to follow in his father’s footsteps? Why would he perpetuate an organization that seeks to seed power to the worst men in society? Why does he participate in grotesque rituals? Why does he keep terror and blackmail alive like it is his duty?

Perhaps the answer is as simple and timeless as: love of power. Dominance and ambition rise off of Michael like steam. It is only natural that Leo Langdon’s son would take the throne that is due to him without questioning it.

But why are YOU so eager to give Michael the benefit of every doubt?

The answer rises in your mind, clear as India ink: because you are a besotted, love sick fool.

“I have not earned your trust, Michael,” you say. “I understand that. You think me an agent of Lady Goode, conspiring to tear down all of your enterprises.”

Michael scoffs, “As if you COULD…”

You frown. “Do you imagine that because we are women we are lesser opponents?”

Michael’s sneer fades. “No,” he answers, and you know that he is being truthful.

“You allowed Lady Meade to join the Brimstone Society,” you say, remembering the way the short, masked woman had filled the entirety of the meeting hall with furor.

Michael frowns. “You are FISHING, Y/n. Do you imagine that my goals for the Brimstone Society are any different from my Father’s?”

He steps closer, and, despite everything, quim answers his nearness with an awakening throb.

“Make no, mistake,” he says, “I enjoy your perfect little cunt.” His eyes wander down to said, pooling cunt. “But if you should ever meddle in my affairs, get in my way, or make yourself an inconvenience, I will not hesitate to annihilate you.” The threat is whispered like a lover’s promise.

How can such words paint your quim with arousal?

Michael lifts his chin imperiously. “Do I make myself clear?”

You wet your lips before answering. “Yes.”

“Good. Now get on all fours on the bed.”

You waver for a moment.

“Must I repeat myself?” Michael inquires icily.

“No.”

You proceed to the bed and assume the position of a bitch about to be mounted. You look back at Michael questioningly.

“Eyes forward,” he commands.

You face the headboard and consider the oaken carving of a rabbit fleeing a hungry vixen. Air caresses your quim. You shut your eyes against the shame of it.

And before you can think, you are stunned by the sensation of a hot, probing tongue licking you from behind.

Michael Langdon is crouching upon the bed, laving the folds of your presented quim, growling at the taste. He savors your momentary shock, then flattens his tongue over the seam of your cunt. Moaning in bliss, he sucks. He sucks as though it is worship to do so.

You gasp in pleasure, only to have Michael cease his ministrations. A resounding SMACK! is delivered to you left ass cheek.

“Control yourself,” Michael says harshly. He slaps your bottom again then returns to his pleasure.

You come four more times that night, to Michael’s mad, decadent slurping of your quim.

An hour before dawn, he takes you again. The room is still. The embers of the hearth are dying. The scent of your coupling permeates the air. Michael’s beautiful brow is tense with concentration. You know that he wishes to prolong every second sheathed in your warmth. Every pass of his cock is perfection.

You will yourself mute, knowing that the servants will be rousing soon. You arch up to kiss his face. Michael groans as though you have slapped him.

He is such a brutal man. But such a considerate lover, coaxing pleasure from your overwrought quim with his cock and fingers, sighing as your muscles convulse around him.

Michael spends, this time, into the handkerchief which was previously stuffed in your mouth. You bite back disappointment to have not… touched the liquid.

But there is no time to linger on that. Daylight is rushing to steal your happiness.

Michael holds you for a short time afterwards.

You are drifting back toward sleep when it occurs to you that you are in love with him.

You do nothing to betray the shattering revelation, merely snuggle close to his chest, and hold his steady heartbeat in the shell your ear.

Later, when Michael is dressing himself in the orderly manner of a general, you watch him with mounting sadness. He places on your lips as chaste a kiss as can be managed between you, then leaves.

Three more nights, you think.

Only three.

And the rest of your days will be a desert.

…………………………………….

Isabella does not like to be kept waiting.

Even less, she likes being kept waiting by men.

Especially when any gentlemen should count himself lucky if she sees fit to promise an assignation to one Lord Henry Snow, Lady Myrtle’s dullard of a stepson, in exchange for the master key of this house, so that she might slip into said gentleman’s rooms and arrange herself like a waiting feast upon his bed.

It is past midnight when Isabella lets herself into Michael’s bedroom. She finds it empty. The bed has not been touched. The carriage clock is ticking. There isn’t even a nightcap lying finished on the mantle.

The room is redolent of him. Isabella loves the smell. She takes the opportunity of his absence to gulp it up like an enamoured schoolgirl- the kind of innocent she never was.

With a dramatic flourish that it is a shame no one is here to bear witness to, she throws off her fur lined robe. Beneath it, Isabella has worn a new negligee. It is white, which is unusual for her, but something (she cannot think what) swayed her to the colour tonight. It is wonderfully transparent, with side slits climbing up past her hip bones. She has particular fondness for the red eyelet work around her décolleté, though, she imagines the garment will be torn from her far too quickly to have its marvels fully taken in.

After only a few minutes of waiting, Isabella is frustrated and bored witless. She attempts to rifle through the drawers, but nothing therein belongs to Michael. All he has left out for perusal is a wardrobe full of dinner jackets, tail coats, pants and shoes. There is an ink pot on the writing desk, and a notepad which appears to be missing exactly one sheet. Besides this, the room bears no stories for Scheherazade.

Except for the book lying on the night table, with its cover facing down.    

Isabella half expects to find it to be some morsel or other by the Marquis De Sade, but lifting the tiny leather-bound tome, she is surprised, and dismayed, to find something quite different emblazoned on the cover. ‘De vi centrifuga’, it reads, ‘‘ON CENTRIFUGAL FORCE’, by Christiaan Huygens’.

Isabella can feel contentment leak out of her very pores. A dull wave of understanding washes over her.

Michael is reading this drivel in order to impress that bluestocking.  

He LIKES you.

Likes you enough to spend his time attempting to wrap his mind around what some tiresome Dutchman once wrote about ‘curvilinear motion’…

This is a most irritating turn of events.

Isabella had harboured suspicion, of course. Why else was she here, in the unwelcoming, marble filled realm of Lady Myrtle Snow? She had to see, one more time, Michael’s interactions with the chit who would presume to steal his affections.

Isabella had hurled cruelty upon you in Lady Snow’s parlour, as though sprinkling the forest floor with chunks of flesh and lying in wait for the wolf to arrive.

And arrive he did.

But not to your defence.

Michael joined Isabella in mocking you. And he did it with such relish.

But in the back of her mind, doubt still niggled.

Later in the evening, when the Duke arrived back in the drawling room, smelling mysteriously of nettles and tree bark, he was, for the first time since their reunion, solicitous of Isabella. So much so that she thought perhaps their two-pronged ravening of that little girl’s feelings might have rekindled memories of the inferno they were a decade ago.

‘He can’t have forgotten our passion,’ Isabella thought as the Duke of Langdon attentively refilled her wine glass. Their understanding of one another had been rare, their unfettered eroticism, mutually consuming. Isabella is certain that Michael has not known the like of it since they parted.    

But a woman’s intuition ought never be ignored.

And here is this book about…. Physics. And it seems to spell out her nightmares with its taunting, curling Latin.

Did Isabella patiently fuck Michael’s father all those years- into his INFIRMITY- for this?

Did she smile and bear the dim-witted, slime covered, overfamiliarity of ‘gentlemen’ for this?

Did she smite her enemies so that she might live to be triumphed over by a charmless virgin?

If you ARE still a virgin… Michael might already have taken care of that. The thought of this drives a spear of spite through Isabella’s stomach. She cannot think straight from the poison beating in her ears.

Isabella has no doubt that Michael enjoyed the company of many women during his sojourn in Paris. It never ruffled her to think about then. After all, she was bedding half the ton and running to tell Leo the details. But somehow, in her soul, or whatever is left of it, she kept herself ‘pure’ for Michael. Not the traditional sort of purity. To Isabella, purity consists of honesty, and a surrender to chaotic impulse when nature demands it. In her own way, she waited for Michael. Harlotry was her nunnery. Time was her punishment.   

And now, there is not a living thing that would stand in the way of their ruling the country.

If Michael wanted it, he could be a thousand times more powerful than Leo Langdon ever was.

Instead, he has fools like her brother wondering where all the blood sacrifices have gone. That, Isabella chooses to believe, is what this misbegotten interest in one of Cordelia Goode’s little soldiers has reduced Michael to.

She settles herself upon the luxuriant green counterpane of Michael’s bed. Tomorrow, she thinks with a sigh, is going to be long and eventful. Isabella would be a fool if she were to allow the antics of a girl barely out of her school clothes to rob her of her ‘freshness’. Quality slumber is as important to Isabella as the tears of her rivals.

She is awoken, many hours later, by the arrival of Michael.

Isabella smiles to see him, though the hour indicated by the ticking carriage clock does not make her happy at all.

“What in the name of the devil are you doing in here?” he asks.

There is a devastatingly attractive dishevelment to him. Michael is wearing only his shirt and pants and holding his tailcoat in his arms like a man returning from a night painting the town. His antique gold hair is mussed, and his jaw appealingly stubbled.

“I won’t ask where you were, Michael,” Isabella says, sounding playful, when all she wants to do is smash furniture. “Because I know.”

“I will not ask what you could possibly mean,” says Michael dismissively, walking to his closet and hanging his things. “Radcliffe will be in soon, so, unless your aim is to be discovered…”

“Why should I care if I am discovered?” asks Isabella springing from the bed and gliding toward him. The man does not even GLANCE at her laced décolletage. “The entire house knows what we have been to each other, Michael- and most suspect that we have revived our former acquaintance.”

“If you have come here in hopes of an assignation-”

Isabella interrupts him, rather more viciously than she intends. “Never mind, Michael. You are obviously too fucked out for that.”

She ignores, in deference to her own crumbling pride, the fact that Michael Langdon has never in his life been ‘too fucked out’ to fuck some more.

“Then, pray tell, why are you still here?”

Isabella steps closer. “I can smell another woman’s cunt on you,” she whispers. “And I know whose it is. But I do not mind.”

“You speak nonsense.” Michael’s face is void of expression.

“The only thing I DO mind, is being taken for a fool.”

“Perhaps, it would be prudent to cease playing the role to such perfection,” he says coldly.

“’There is nothing that that boy has ever touched that has not turned to ash’,” says Isabella, quoting her late lover, Michael’s father. She feels him grow rigid at the words, just through the air around them, she does not even have to touch... “And such it will be with HER, Michael, if you do not take heed.”

“Get out,” he says simply.

With a thrum of triumph, and a small swell of regret, Isabella takes up her fur lined robe, and sweeps out of the room.

………………………………………………….

Radcliffe encounters a very pale, very distracted looking Lord Langdon sitting in the clawfoot bath in the middle of his guest room when he arrives that morning.

“Send orders for the coach to be prepared, Radcliffe,” he huffs, without so much as a ‘Good morning.’ Honestly, thinks the valet, his Lordship knows how to be most rude.

“Very good, My Lord,” he says, then hesitates before adding, “You DO know that is it Saturday morning, Sir?”

“Of course.”

“Very good, My Lord.”

“If we make haste, I expect that we will return to this house before dinner hour.”

Radcliffe’s Master’s expression is grim, so he questions no further.  

……………………

John Henry, Duke of Devonshire, has not seen sunlight in eight months.

He has forgotten what air tastes like when he opens his mouth outdoors in Spring.

Is it Spring? He has lost track of the seasons.

If it is later Spring, the trout in the fishing pond at Goode Manor have spawned already. If it is early Spring, the lawn behind the house is a carpet of bluebells. In Scotland, it is believed that the hares that hide beneath their blanketing blue are really witches in disguise. The thought makes John Henry smile, though his lips are cracked and bleeding, to think of the beloved little witches that reside in his house.

Sometimes, John Henry is grateful that they believe him to be dead, for it ensures their safety.

Other times, John Henry is struck with despair to think of all of them, going about their honourable lives without him.

When John Henry is in a mood to cry, he thinks of Thomas Gallant. He thinks of all the time that they will never have together, and all that the moody prize of John Henry’s love has cost the younger man. And then the pain of his heart grows so unbearable that it cancels the pain of chains digging into his ankle flesh (a recent souvenir of his attempt to escape), and the lash marks on his back.

For eight months, ever since his ‘horse accident’ at a ‘hunting weekend’ held at the Duke of Langdon’s country property, John Henry has resided in a cell in a dungeon. The dungeon is located beneath Langdon’s sprawling estate in Yorkshire, with only the howling moors to hear his broken screams.

As far as cells go, John Henry supposes that this one is not the worst (if the law ever found out about the nature of his love for Mr. Gallant, for example, he would be sequestered in conditions far fouler than these). He sleeps on a lightly cushioned mat on a cot with no fleas to speak of. He is fed adequate amounts of food and water. He is even provided with books to read (although the inclusion of that Walpole novel in which a man named Theodore is locked in a tower… bad taste, really).

John Henry knows that, any time he wants to, he can give the Duke of Langdon the information which will set him free.

And to be fair, the torture has been held to a minimum.

John Henry has been whipped on four occasions since arriving here. After each instance, Lady Meade, Michael Langdon’s bullish Aunt, has arrived to apply dittany to his wounds and scold him for not, ‘telling the Duke what he wants.’

When John Henry was first imprisoned, the Duke of Langdon had him tied to his cot and blind folded. Then, he proceeded to pour water onto his face. It was the worst fear John Henry has ever known. And still, he did not tell the infernal Duke his secret.

Langdon was furious. Although, John Henry recognized it to be a fury tinged with admiration.

Two months ago, Langdon threatened to have his finger nails removed, but has not acted on it yet. He simply allows John Henry to stew and wait, wondering when he will be roused from sleep for the terrible event.

It is odd. The longer he stays down here, in the lonely dark, with only his fears and regrets for company, the more determined he is to deny Langdon the answer he so assiduously seeks.

Sometimes a part of him wonders: is it worth Mr. Gallant’s unhappiness to deny Lord Langdon? Is it worth the safety of the Coven? Is it worth his being far from Parliament, where he can enact actual good, and fight his enemy from a pulpit of respectability?

In such moments of weakness, John Henry reminds himself that if Michael Langdon were ever to have the information he seeks, he would likely slit his throat.

‘What?’ he asks himself, ‘Do you believe that he will allow you to return to your comfortable home, to your companionate wife and respectable position?’

The answer to every question is silence. The solution to every riddle is darkness. It can be no other way.

John Henry’s reverie is interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing down the stairs of the dungeon.

When he looks up, he is met with the sight of his captor, illuminating the doorway beyond his cage like the devil’s rendition of angelic beauty.

The Duke of Devonshire meets the gaze of the Duke of Langdon.  

“Are you well?” Langdon bites out impatiently.

“Save for the fact that I spend my days shackled to the floor, I am fine, Lord Langdon.”

“That is good. I would not have you expire before I have gotten what I need from you.”

“I’m touched,” says John Henry, laying a hand on his chest in a sarcastic gesture. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, My Lord. Is it time to be de-clawed?”

Michael frowns. “I was rather hoping that we could dispense with that.”

“Would you really deny yourself the pleasure?” asks John Henry. “If you would, you are not your father’s son.”

“Would that it were true,” Michael mumbles, quite audibly, under his breath.

“If you have come for the location of your father’s diary, I must repeat what I have said lo these past eight months: I will not give it to you.”

“My patience is much depleted,” says Michael dangerously. “It has never been more paramount that you tell me the location of the diary, Lord Goode.”  

“Why should it be more important now, than before?” John Henry asks with interest.

Uncertainty passes over the Duke’s imperious face. “It simply is.”

“Am I to be offered no explanation, Lord Langdon? Surely my fingernails are owed that at least.”

“I owe you NOTHING.”

“Then you shall HAVE nothing.”

The torches in the wall sconces gutter and spit. They have reached, as they always do in these encounters, an impasse.

“Something has changed,” Langdon confesses at last. His manner is cold and authoritative as ever, but there is a palpable dilemma within the Duke.

John Henry watches him carefully. Langdon looks exhausted, and, somehow, younger than he remembers. If John Henry were to meet him, now, for the first time, he might mistake him for nothing more than a young man made weary from pining after a lover. Something has, indeed, changed.

“Circumstances are such that it has become of urgent importance that I find my father’s diary,” says the Duke. “I am prepared to do anything, Lord Goode. I am prepared to torture you unto the point of insanity, or death if needs must.”

John Henry has been threatened a great deal in his life. One of his status, and nature, does not exist in this world without encountering hurtles that would make a lesser, weaker, less intelligent man cower. He leans forward toward the terrible man before him, so that his face nearly touches the bars of his cell.

“Who has you dancing by their strings, Lord Langdon? What is her name?”

…………………………………………………………………………….

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your enormously generous feedback and readership! I continue to be utterly thrilled that even a single person is reading this. I am so, so grateful. You guys bring unspeakable joy into my life, please know that!  
> I am sorry for the delayed posting (and it is still probably riddled with typos, sorry!!!) I hope that the dark-ish tone is not terribly off putting. I promise that the next will have some lighter, more fluffy stuff (if that is your cup of tea). I hope that Michael waterboarding John Henry wasn’t too much. He may be secret-soft-boi-fool-in-love, but he is a bad, bad Duke. Not the antichrist, but he still gotta be bad!  
> ‘The Vampyre’ by John William Polidori (written in 1819) is short work of fiction that is considered ground zero for the vampire fiction/the romantic vampire genre. It’s about a sexy ass English aristocrat who happens to be a diabolical vampire. He seduces a lot of ladies/kills a ton of folks, and then makes off into the night in the end. Anyway, check it out if you haven’t and are interested in where the whole Bram Stoker-Kressley Cole-Stephanie Meyer Vampire-as-SEX GOD-thing-started.  
> Ok, when it comes to math and such, my brain is about as adept as a ruptured coconut, so sorry for dragging Huygens ‘De vi centrifuga’ and even GRAVITY ITSELF into this trash. I made Y/n a regency era physics nerd in tribute to a special person in my life, who is probably shaking their head in dismay after reading several pages worth of barely literate porn with some candelabras thrown in haha.  
> Isabella is excited that maybe Michael is reading something by the Marquis De Sade in preparation for ‘rogering’ her. As I am sure most all of you know, he was a French writer who wrote some pretty legendary, quite intense bdsm smut back in the day and died right around the beginning of the regency era (from Sade comes ‘Sadism’ and ‘Sadist’, and from Leopold Von Sacher-Masoch (author of ‘Venus in Furs’) comes ‘masochism’ and ‘masochist’). I could totally see Isabella reading that shit and thinking she was so baller (which she is!).  
> Walter Scott was a really prolific Scottish regency era writer. Among other things, he wrote ‘Rob Roy’ and ‘Ivanhoe’. The fact that he wrote so much led Y/n to complain that she was hardly ‘the Walter Scott of interfering with’ herself, when Michael teased her about masturbation.  
> Being a cheeky monster, Michael left ‘The Castle of Otranto’ as one of John Henry’s reading materials. It features, among many other gothic tropes, a man unjustly imprisoned in a tower.  
> The reason why Y/n is so ‘WHOAA!!!’ about the thought of giving Michael a beej (and assures him that she did not invent such an act) is cus this was considered a pretty extra and exotic sexual thing to do back then. In historical romance novels, a heroine going down on the Prince/Duke/Earl/Self-made-hotel-impresario is a big deal when it happens (and he’s always like ‘whoa I thought only courtesans did this shit’). Don’t worry, Y/n will get her wish😉  
> The next chap will go into some detail about wtf is going on with this 'diary' and John Henry etc.  
> The question of birth control was a thorny issue in the regency era. Most people used the (not fool proof) 'pull out' method that Michael utilizes here. But some used condoms made from animal intestines or other types of things.  
> Thank you again, from the bottom of my heart, for making my life by reading this fanfic. I am so lucky!!!  
> All my love, folks xoxo


	8. Chapter 8

 “A great fire burns within me, but no one stops to warm themselves at it, and passers-by only see a wisp of smoke”

― Vincent Van Gogh

…………………………………………………

A country house full of aristocrats does not contemplate breaking its fast before eleven. It is left to the servants to rise and toil with the sun, to stoke fires and fetch Lady Snow her fripperies. You consider this with a pang of guilt, on this day especially, when you have never been more grateful for the option of rising late. After a night shamelessly rutting with the Duke of Langdon, you are not fit to move before four hours past dawn.

At the appointed hour, house guests shuffle into Lady Snow’s peach blossom painted dining room and help themselves to plates of plum and honey cakes, brioches, wild berry preserves, herbed butter, boiled eggs and steaming pots of tea and hot chocolate spread out on the sideboard. A few of the gentleman take their cue from the Prince Regent himself and partake in glasses of brandy first thing in the morning.  A sense of bleary-eyed joviality pervades the room. Except in Lady Snow, who is grimacing at the head table and demanding that Zoe fetch her a caraway roll, with the caraway seeds scraped off.  

Cordelia is keeping a watchful eye over her girls. Lady Fullerton, seated between her son, Algernon, and Queenie, is regaling her prospective daughter in law about the dangers of having one’s boils lanced too soon.

Mr. Gallant is dutifully sitting at a table with Lord Sotherton and his cronies. Upon his face is the wax-like smile he always wears amid such company, the one that speaks nothing of his inner life, of loss, uncertainty and rage. You have new appreciation for Mr. Gallant’s fortitude in the aftermath of John Henry Goode’s death. To be able to sit with men who may well have played a role in his love’s murder, to drink with them and appear carefree…it is unthinkable. You are ashamed to acknowledge that it is your own feelings for Michael that have deepened your sympathy thus.

Your ‘feelings’… What a spineless word for the mad, violent, irrevocable, desperate love you harbour for the most ruthless man you have ever known.

For a man who blackmailed you and threatened the reputations of those closest to you.

For a man who has professed to killing.

For a man who cannot, and will never, feel love for you.

Why, out of the entire list, does the LAST item mean more than all the rest combined? What kind of nitwit are you?

Is it because some strange alchemical thing occurs when one takes a lover into one’s body? Is it because, while you are sitting here, behaving ‘respectably’, amidst smartly dressed people, platters of food and sunlight spearing through the windows, you can still feel Michael Langdon in your cunt?

O god.

Your quim is sore. You would not part with that soreness for the world. Every time you shift position in your chair, you are visited by memories so good you could cry here and now into the pot of marmalade in front of you.

You are grateful that Michael is not in the room this morning. You think.

“You missed quite the evening,” Coco informs you as she spreads a generous dollop of butter into the fissures of her torn bread. “Lord Wydenham and Lord Topham nearly came to blows over who was going to bring Madison a glass of champagne. I told her that Lord Topham was a far worthier candidate, as Lord Wydenham is given to great wenching.”

“Coco, did you not stuff flowers between your kettledrums last night to get Wydenham’s attention?” questions Madison with a frown.

“An entirely irrelevant point,” sniffs Coco, before sinking her teeth into her roll.

“You must tell us what words were exchanged between you and that Darwood woman,” whispers Madison, leaning forward after tipping a flask of cognac into her tea. “We have been dying of suspense.”

It is at that precise moment that Lady Darwood elects to make her sensational entrance, laughing a theatrical laugh, trailed into the dining room by a coterie of grinning gentleman that happens to include her brother. She is beautiful in her lilac gown and lemony, ringleted hair. Her eyes, hard as sapphires, scan the room and quickly come to rest upon you. There is such unmitigated hatred in her gaze that it quickens your breath. She nods at you, does Isabella Darwood. But it is not an amiable gesture at all. It is more closely related to the nod she might give a farm hand to indicate the swine that she wishes slaughtered for Yule Tide feast. You smile at her with your best approximation of innocence, and this earns you one last scowl before she diverts her attention completely.  

 “Well, dash my wig,” says Coco, eyeing Lady Darwood with no hint of subtlety. “She looks as though she has been pissing needles.”

“Why is she looking at you like that, Y/n?” asks Madison.

“I can have no idea,” you answer as convincingly as you can muster.

“But what did you two talk about last night? Why does she look as though she’d like skewer you?”

“Nothing! Just, um, planets. We talked of planets. Perhaps Lady Darwood is angry because she is a proponent of the geocentric model of the universe…” you offer dumbly.

“I am surprised that the Duke is not with her,” whispers Coco. “Seeing how she probably warmed his bed last night, and she takes more pleasure in shocking people than Crumpet does in having her paws massaged in lavender oil.”

“Is THAT why there is grease all over my pink pelisse?!” asks Madison in outrage.

Such a bizarre mixture of emotions grips you then. You want to shout that NO, Michael was most certainly NOT with Lady Darwood last night. But you would also like to dissolve into the dining room’s freshly painted walls and never again return to the order of the human. 

“Girls,” admonishes Lady Cordelia in a whisper. “If you insist on gossiping, you would best confine it to more private arenas.”

“Where is the Duke anyway?” Coco asks her aunt, exercising creativity in her interpretation of the behest.

“Lady Snow tells me that he has left for his own property in Yorkshire to see to an errand,” Lady Cordelia answers.

“Is that not rather suspicious?” asks Madison.

“Possibly. Possibly not,” allows Lady Cordelia. “The Duke might simply be meeting with one of his bailiffs or seeing to the purchase of a new horse. Then again, Gallant says that he suspects that the you-know-what-society is set to meet within a week. He could be laying down preparations for that.”

“How maddening that we cannot know…” sighs Madison.

“Or do anything about it,” adds Coco.

“Patience is a conquering virtue, Girls,” says Cordelia, quoting Chaucer.

If you really wanted to be the insufferable ‘swot’ that Michael is always pronouncing you to be, you would counter Lady Cordelia’s words with a Chaucer quote of your own: ‘Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained.’ But you won’t do that. You are not an ass.

“Lady Myrtle is of the mind that Lord Langdon will return here before evening,” says Lady Cordelia, effectively cancelling whatever appetite you had for tea and rolls.

If Michael means to spend another night in Lady Snow’s house, does that mean that night three is upon you?

From across the room, Viscount Darwood gives Coco a look to make a snake’s skin crawl.

“Ugh, Viscount Darwood,” says your cousin averting her eyes to look at a pyramid of clementines piled on platter next to her.

Lady Cordelia sits up straighter. “Has he been bothering you, Coco?” she asks glaring at the red headed man.

“He was overly familiar with his attentions to me last night,” says Coco. “He said he liked ‘the smell of nosegays’, and we all know what I had tucked between my bosom.”

“Be alert, Girls,” says Cordelia, “Viscount Darwood has a reputation.”

Coco nods. “They say that during Leo Langdon’s reign as the leader of the you-know-what, he would reward the Viscount by letting him have his pick of scullery maids to do god knows what to. And sometimes, it was gently bred ladies too.”

You frown over Coco’s differentiation of ‘scullery maids’ and ‘gently-bred ladies’.

“Who told you that, Coco?” asks Lady Cordelia pointedly.

Coco flushes. “Lord Sotherton,” she whispers. “Last year, when we were… friendly.”

Are men such as Viscount Darwood the sort of people Michael willingly consorts with? There can be no other answer but ‘yes.’   

After breakfast, a some of the guests gather upon the neatly cut grass at the back of the house to play lawn bowls.

Leaving Madison and Zoe to their sports and their suitors, you and Coco take a turn by the pond. Seven swans dapple the green, rippling water, along with Algernon Fullerton, who is rowing a tiny boat filled with his mother and Queenie. The cherry trees near the shoreline are in full bloom, shedding blossoms like confetti in the breeze. A swaying cacophony of willows makes excellent cover for your private conversation.

You have not spoken to your cousin intimately since the morning after the Brimstone Revel, when you agreed not to tell Lady Cordelia of your ordeal. It is as though an entire lifetime has been lived in the interim. Your guilt is awoken to think of the sorrow and confusion in Coco’s heart as a result of her discovery of her Father’s involvement in the Brimstone Society. Your cousin’s single-minded determination to be joyful is one of her most endearing qualities. It often makes people- namely, gentleman- believe her to be a shallower person than she really is.

“How have you been, Sweeting?” you venture softly. “It has been such a long time since we talked about… everything.”

A fleeting melancholy touches Coco’s smile. “I have been better than I first supposed I would be,” she answers. “I was rather wondering the same of you, Y/n.”

“I am well,” you manage. “If a little less… wide-eyed.”

Coco’s smile broadens. “The truth, as I keep reminding myself, is that we did not witness anything so very horrible. No one was disemboweled. The devil was not conjured. It was just… people. Naked people. My Father…” her voice trails off.

“It must be difficult knowing that you are to face Lord Vanderbilt soon,” you say, referring to your impending return to London, and the house of Coco’s duplicitous father, and seemingly oblivious mother.

“It is strange to think of seeing him,” she agrees. “But what I know about him- and this may sound strange- cuts him down to size a little.”

“How so?”

“Well, my Father has never been the gooey sort, you could say. He has always frightened me a little, to be perfectly honest. I know that he wanted a boy and was disappointed by me. I never could be clever enough for him. And on top of everything, I went ahead and ‘squandered my virtue’ on Lord Sotherton- which he does not know about, of course- but still. But now, I am free,” says Coco and lets out an exhale.

“Free?”

“My stern father is naught more than a human being,” she says. “He is a man just as ridiculous and weak willed as a whole host of others. When I saw him flopping around with his whore pipe out, grunting with that ‘nun’, I realized that. At first it made me ill. Now, I feel liberated.”

You take Coco’s hand in your own and give it a squeeze. “You are rather a formidable woman, Coco Vanderbilt.”

“Yes, I am rather,” Coco agrees. You look out over the water. Lady Fullerton is chattering to Queenie, but you cannot hear the words, except for the repetition of: “gout.”

“What about you?” Coco asks after a moment. “Has the Duke of Langdon alluded to the time he discovered us? Surely you have had fleeting interactions with him.”    

You swallow. “Fleeting, yes,” you say. “But we’ve barely spoken.”

“Perhaps Lord Langdon is too wrapped up in Lady Darwood to pepper you with insults the way he used to do,” offers Coco.

“Perhaps,” you say weakly.

“Still, it DOES seem strange that the Duke, who is our mortal enemy, should let us off so lightly…”

“Strange, yes.”

Coco’s attempts at interrogation are interrupted by the sudden appearance of Lady Myrtle Snow ahead of you on the grass. She is brandishing a parasol and decked out in so many white frills that she resembles a profiterole. When her eyes narrow upon the two of you, you stop and curtsey.

“What a dainty looking parasol, My lady,” says Coco amiably. Lady Snow regards your cousin as though were nothing so consequential as dandelion puff ball.

“Ms. Y/n,” she says briskly to you, “Lady Cordelia tells me that you retired early last night owing to a ‘headache’.” You swallow. Absolutely nothing about Lady Snow’s demeanor in this moment suggests that she accepts this as the truth. “I trust that you are full of pepper this morning?”

“Very much so, My Lady. I thank you for inquiring,” you reply.

“Ms. Vanderbilt,” says Lady Snow turning to Coco. “There is a wildish patch of strawberries on the other side of the pond near to where some of my guests are attempting to decapitate one another with lawn bowls. Lady Cordelia intimated to me that you are fond of them.”

“Why yes, Lady Snow,” says Coco with a smile. “Wild strawberries are my particular favorite!”

“Pick. Some,” says Lady Snow. “NOW would be optimal.”   

Coco blinks. “What an attractive suggestion, Lady Snow, Ms. Y/n and I would love to-”

“Go on your own, dear,” says Lady Snow sternly. “You young girls stick to one another like sin and damnation. I find it most vexing!”

Coco looks abashed.

“What are you waiting for, Ms. Vanderbilt? PICK! Pick before the starlings, or my horrible stepson have gobbled them all!”

The older woman practically pushes Coco down the incline of the hill.

When she is out of ear shot, Lady Snow observes, “What a vapid girl your cousin is, no wonder the gentlemen have all lost their cigars over her.”

You are needled by the statement, and Lady Snow flashes you a glance that practically dares you to contradict her.

“Lady Snow, may I speak frankly?” you ask.

“I have the distinct impression that you will, regardless of my answer, so, do save me the trouble and carry on,” snarls the Marchioness.

“Coco is rather more clever than most people give her credit for.”

“Yes, perhaps,” says Lady Snow. “But YOU are not.”

You blink. “I-I beg your pardon, Ma’am?”

“Would you be so kind as to tell me how long you have been fucking the Duke of Langdon, Ms. Y/n?”

All four chambers of your heart are flooded with the coldest dread you have ever known.

“I-I am not-”

Lady Snow brings her small, white hand up to halt the lies before they tumble out of you.

“Save me your barrels of adulterated wine, Ms. Y/n,” she says. “I care little for what you do with your muff. Turn it into custom house, if you want. But when you and the Duke conduct amorous congress under my roof, it is another matter entirely.”

You look down at the grass. It is cut short and jewelled with water droplets from the morning mists that lately hovered over the pond. You cannot meet Lady Snow’s eyes. You cannot bear to look at any human being ever again.

“Do not mistake me, Ms. Y/n,” says Lady Snow a little more lightly, “I would never begrudge an opportunist.” She lets out a dry sound which is not quite a laugh. “How hypocritical that would be of me?”

You look up at her. “Opportunist. Ma’am?”

Ignoring the injury in your voice, the Marchioness continues. “You are being pragmatic, Dear. I understand that. But consider in what an inconvenient position you are putting ME in. If your chaperone, Cordelia were to know-”

“I beg you, Lady Snow, please do not tell Lady Cordelia.” You feel utterly pathetic, but what else can you say?

“Of course not, Dear,” agrees Lady Snow. “Delia, as much as I adore her, would be the last person in the world to appreciate the necessity of your ploy.”

“My ‘ploy’, Lady Snow?” You stare at her with incredulity. “Ma’am, do y-you think I am using Mich- the Duke of Langdon in hopes that he will…”

It is an act of mercy when Lady Snow completes your sentence: “Offer for you? Why, yes Ms, Y/n.”

“Allow me to assure you, My Lady: I harbour no such designs on the Duke. Marriage, is, I know, a great unlikelihood for me, let alone... with the Duke.”

Lady Snow casts you a sceptical look. “Does one engage in face-making with the richest man in England for ‘fun’?”

“’Face-making’, my Lady?”

“Babies have faces,” huffs Lady Snow impatiently. “I grant it, the Duke of Langdon looks as though he has sprung out of a canvas by Botticelli; nonetheless it is inconceivable to me that a girl in your precarious circumstances would allow herself to think with her water-mill instead of her brain.”

You feel lashes of embarrassment fall on you with the cherry blossom leaden breeze. “I- I do not... I know not what to say Ma’am. I am not thinking with my-um. I suppose I am not thinking at all…”

You do not dare tell Lady Snow about the bargain you were forced to strike with Michael. If he found out you deviated from your promise of secrecy, the whole arrangement would doubtless be called off, and Coco’s reputation would be besmirched, along with yours. Besides which, you think with all the leaden weight of your self loathing, you would never get to have your three remaining nights…

“I assure you, Lady Snow,” you say vehemently. “Whatever feelings I may harbour for the Duke, he would die before he entertained notions of marrying me. I know that.”

“I did not realize it was ‘feelings’ we were discussing, Ms. Y/n,” says Lady Snow with a vaguely disgusted expression. “I was rather under the impression that shagging the Duke was part of a larger, wiser enterprise on your end. Evidently, I was wrong.” She frowns. “I admit, young lady, you have me VERY confused. Are you a pirate or a dullard?”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” you say sheepishly. “Probably a dullard. Forgive me.”

Lady Snow laughs genuinely for the first time since you made her acquaintance. It is like witnessing an iceberg melt. “Do not apologize, Dear. The prospect of watching Lord Langdon lose his wits over a member of the so called ‘Coven’ is tremendously diverting.”

“He is not losing his wits over me!”

“The way Lady Darwood looked at you from across the dining room this morning suggests otherwise.”

You blanch. “I am sure that you are mistaken, My Lady.”

“I am never mistaken,” the Marchioness says sharply. “I am invariably correct in all matters. It is quite tiresome. I know for a fact that Lady Darwood has designs on becoming the mistress of the second Duke of Langdon that she has known biblically.”   

“If Lady Darwood has designs on the Duke of Langdon, there is no reason at all that she should view me as a threat to them.”

Lady Snow indulges you with another smile. “I was under the impression that Isabella dug her nails into your deepest flesh last night. I was watching from my little perch with all the society matrons, you see. It was a most interesting spectacle; like watching a lioness toy with a lamb, only to have the lamb rear its head up and bite off the lioness’s nose, then snatch the lion up for herself. When the Duke excused himself after dinner, it did not take me a moment’s consideration to guess where he was going…”

You cringe over how obvious she makes it all seem. Here you were, really believing that the wool was tugged firmly over every eye in the ton. “Be that as it may, Lady Snow, I do not fool myself to think that Lord Langdon considers me anything more than a brief affair. I mean nothing to him.” The words are painful coming out of your mouth because, beneath all of your foolish dreams, you sincerely believe them to be true.

Lady Snow snorts. The disbelieving sound makes you want to kiss and embrace her. “Don’t be absurd, Dear. Why would Isabella’s arse be all tangled up in bows if that were true?” She leans forward. “No doubt your coven-ly sisters have alerted you to the fact that Isabella was the late Duke of Langdon’s mistress.”

You nod. It was Lord Chesterton, actually. But you do NOT correct her. What kind of a petticoat pensioner would Lady Snow think you are if you invoked another gentleman’s name in the midst of all this?

“Isabella’s Father was a gambler and a fool,” Lady Snow informs you. “He was given to prolific wenching, and fearful tirades. When he died, he left his family in worse circumstances than those when he was alive- which is saying something. Isabella saved her family in best way she knew how.”

You compassion is awakened upon hearing this.

“How utterly unfair for her,” you say.

Lady Snow rolls her eyes. “I swear, young people these days have turned into streaks of marmalade… Do not feel too badly for your rival, Ms. Y/n. I assure you that Isabella would love nothing better than to wear your skin as a stole.”

“Lady Darwood is not my rival,” you repeat. “What could Lady Darwood find threatening in me? She has independence, wealth, ambition, the wisdom of experience… Her admirers fall over themselves panting after her. No doubt she already has the Duke’s heart.”

“It seems a funny thing,” says Lady Snow, in her airiest voice, “that one would feel the need to go to war if the fortress is already captured…”

It gives you hope that Lady Snow- whose notice nothing, apparently, can escape- believes that the ‘fortress’ has not, in fact, been ‘captured’ by Lady Isabella.

But hope, you know, is dangerous.

“Isabella was Michael Langdon’ lover when he was barely out of adolescence and she was ‘past her bloom’,” says Lady Snow. “I am of the mind that the love affair was a formative one for both parties.”

If the Marchioness only knew how your guts twist to hear the word ‘love’ evoked in discussion of Michael and Lady Darwood!

Perhaps she does.

Perhaps it is a fitting punishment.

What right have you to feel territorial about Michael? He knew Lady Darwood when you were little more than a child. It makes NO SENSE to be jealous. Yet there is lava beneath the lining of your flesh. There are infernos in your ears. There is black ash in your chest to imagine them together, twined in love like curling vines of poison ivy.

“But Lady Darwood remained Leo Langdon’s mistress until his death…” you venture.

Lady Snow nods. “I do not know the particulars of what transpired between the three parties. But it is clear that Isabella gave up Michael. It is not impossible,” she adds thoughtfully, “that the entire connection was arranged by Duke Leo as a kind of… sport.”

Your heart cracks a little to hear this. At first the fissure is little wider than a hair. But it stretches apart the more you contemplate it.

“How could any parent visit such cruelty upon their child?”

“Leo Langdon was that kind of man, Ms. Y/n,” says Lady Myrtle.

“How could Isabella stand to live with him?”

“He effectively ran the world. Some people like power a lot, dear.”

“Why are you telling me this, Lady Snow?” you ask.

“So that you may take heed, Ms. Y/n. When one has paid for what they have with one’s soul, it feels an awful shame to lose it. Isabella is a blade forged in the smithy of pain, but she is a blade nonetheless, and she’s poised at your throat, dear, make no mistake.”

“What would you have me do, Lady Snow?”

“Mind yourself, Dear. Especially around Lady Isabella’s brother.”

“The Viscount?” you ask with a small, inward shudder.

“he pollutes the halls and shades of my estate, you cannot be safe. That is of course, unless the Duke of Langdon endeavors to protect you.”

HA.

Once he has wrung all the pleasures he can from your three remaining nights, Michel will abandon you to a life of insecurity and mediocrity.

Michael, protect you? What an utter fairy tale…

Lady Snow clicks her parasol shut and casts her face to sky. A wall of gray clouds is creeping in from the west to curtain the sunshine.

“It will be rain,” mutters Lady Snow. “We shall be house-bound this afternoon, lord help me. Your friends will insist on exhibiting their ‘talents’ with a concert, or a tableaux, or some other species of horror...”

You hear the high-pitched sound of Lady Fullerton as she is helped from the little boat onto shore by her son. “Dr. Hopkins gave me willow bark to help alleviate the dysentery,” she is telling Queenie. “But it did nothing for the gas. My footmen, poor boys, were catching farts morning, noon and night…”

Algie, as Queenie calls him, looks physically pained by his mother’s utterings. “Mother, please…” he says, “must Ms. Queenie be given a detailed account of such things?”

Lady Fullerton waves her son away. “Don’t be barmy, Algernon. Look how pleasantly Ms. Queenie is smiling!”

Queenie’s rictus of a smile broadens as though she is not being discussed in the third person.

“Seeing as a very-happy-event is to is to be announced soon,” says Lady Fullerton, “we best be getting to know one another.”

“Lady Cordelia knows a great deal about plants and herbal remedies, Lady Fullerton,” offers Queenie. “I am sure she can advise me on just the thing that might help, should you ever be revisited by this pestilent gas.”

“What a deuced bright girl, Algernon!” exclaims Lady Fullerton. “You are most undeserving!”

Algernon Fullerton can do naught but beam at Queenie and hold her hand in his own as the trio walk between the singing willows back toward the great house. 

Contemplating the impending ‘very happy event’, your heart soars with happiness for Queenie. At the same time, a tight fist of envy closes over it.

No one will ever hold your hand in public and claim you as their life’s companion.

And you might not have minded this, once. You might have been happy to lie forever in your bath of loneliness, had you not, lately, experienced the joy of its opposite.

As if sensing your thoughts, Lady Myrtle says in her gentlest voice, “It will be all right, dear. Even if it should happen without him, the adventure of your life continues.”

…………………………………………………….

John Henry Goode is aware that his survival is dependent upon the wits he can summon over the course of this conversation.

Some event has rocked Langdon. He is ‘at the end of his patience’. Is this a blessing or a curse?

“You seem greatly changed,” he observes, regarding the beautiful golden-haired fiend through the cell bars between them. “I ask again, what is her name?”

Langdon’s jaw tightens, and John Henry thinks: ‘A ha.’

“You have been in here for so long that it has eaten your mind,” says Langdon.

“It HAS eaten my mind.” John Henry surges forward so that his matted, overgrown beard grazes metal. “It has helpfully removed all that was unfocused and superfluous. It has made me sharper. And believe me, I was sharp to begin with.”

“Is that why you allowed yourself to be captured and stuffed into this cage?” deadpans Langdon. “I did not realize that all of this suffering was owed to your ‘sharpness’.”

John Henry bristles and sits back. “If you have come here simply to ask for the location of the diary, you are going to be disappointed again.”

“You do realize,” says Langdon with a calm malice that makes John Henry’s back hairs stand to attention, “that I could simply have Gallant brought here, and tortured in the cell next to yours? Would you like that? To listen as it happens?”

John Henry swallows down his terror. “Odd,” he says, with all the self possession he can muster after such a threat, “that you have not done it yet.”

“I might. Now.”

“In that case, something, or someone, must be exerting great pressure on you, Langdon.”

“Perhaps it is true. Are you willing to see how far I would go? Is it worth keeping your secret if it makes you the cause of every misery I visit upon those you love? It will kill you, Goode, it will be torture more brutal than any you can imagine, knowing that they suffer because of you.”

This should fill John Henry with the purest horror. Instead, something about the words Langdon chooses, and the way he says them, gives him hope. “Am I mad?” he asks his jailor, “Or do you speak of love, as though you might actually understand it?”

“I am immune to that particular fragility, Lord Goode,” says Langdon, leaning his body against the stone wall and crossing his arms over his chest.

He says it so convincingly, thinks John Henry. The wall sconces paint his enemy with amber half light. Langdon possesses the kind of beauty that makes people want to glut themselves on it. His mouth reminds John Henry of rose petals. If rose petals could lie.   

“I have read the diary, you know,” he tells Langdon.

John Henry watches as the too-soft lips part and- for briefest moment- Langdon’s pale eyes are filled with vulnerable, human horror.

Sensing his opening, he leaps.

“I can understand why you would like to think yourself ‘immune’ to love, Langdon. Purging you of the capacity seems to have been your father’s modus operandi, pretty well from the moment you were born.”

In the semi-darkness of the dungeon, the Duke of Langdon burns with some dangerous emotion.

“You suffered,” says John Henry. “You suffered horribly. No one should suffer as you have.”

“Do you think me so callow that I might be taken in by your simpering manipulations?” says Langdon. “You talk of love, and yet look how low it has brought you, Goode. You wished to protect Gallant, Cordelia and the rest of your miserable brood, and it led you here. And by the way,” he adds nastily, “they hardly mourned you.”

John Henry feels a crackle of anger, not at Langdon, but himself. He is, in large part, to blame for his own misery. He harbours no illusions otherwise.

He closes his eyes and imagines his lover laying against their old, rumpled picnic blanket, his white blonde hair made paler by sunshine, his smile sweeter and bubblier than caramel in a cooking pot. 

Strange to consider that there was a life before Thomas Gallant.

But there was.

When he was eighteen years old, John Henry Goode fell in love with the eldest son of the Earl of Mott. A year older than him and blessed with confidence that made him glow like a field of marigolds, Crispin Mott was the answer to every question that had ever kept John Henry awake at night.

They met at Hawthorne Academy, where it was easy enough to conceal the difference between true romantic passion, and the usual indiscriminate sort of activities that can found on any property stocked solely with adolescent males. The first time they made love, John Henry’s world resolved into certainty. 

Crispin understood him. But, in retrospect, John Henry doubts he ever extended the boy the same curtesy. There was greater despair in his first love than he, in his astonished exuberance, realized.    

Their association ended on the night before the future Earl of Mott left to begin his studies in Oxford. It was, for the most part, an amicable parting. As often happens in such instances, the lives of the young men proceeded on forking paths. Whereas John Henry married his companionate wife, and forged a clever, but ultimately straight-laced path through the annals of diplomacy and into parliament, Crispin Mott’s ambitions led him into the Brimstone Society.

In time, he became one of Leo Langdon’s most ruthless generals. To quell the sound of his conscience, Crispin became an eater of opium.

John Henry never doubted that it was the ‘Demon Duke’ who destroyed Crispin Mott. Likely he had dug up or arranged something that compromised him. The threat of publicly revealing ‘his nature’ must have been hung over his head regularly.

It is the great regret of John Henry’s life that he did not reach out to his old friend before it was too late.

Deep in the throws of illness, sensing himself near death with nothing to lose, Crispin Mott committed a final, redemptive act: he stole Leo Langdon’s diary and mailed it to John Henry. A day later, he was found dead in his London Townhouse. A week later, Leo Langdon followed him into oblivion.

Thus, did John Henry find himself in possession of the most damning artefact of his era.

It is not simply that it contains detailed records of the various crimes and depravities of members of the Brimstone Society. The new Duke of Langdon, Michael, has records to the same effect in his own possession.

It is what the diary contains about Michael.

And Leo.

And Isabella Darwood (about whose crimes, no other record exists).

To have the diary made public would humiliate the Duke of Langdon, and possibly even land him in prison.

Upon receiving the diary, John Henry read it, then buried it beneath the big oak tree by the bowling green at Goode Manor.

A few days later, he set out for Langdon’s country seat.

His goal was to sneak into a revel of the Brimstone Society.

Some might say that John Henry was a fool to operate alone, to tell no one of his plan, to claim that he was merely spending a weekend in the country to grease the wheels with some parliament members on an impending bill. But what was he to do? He refused to risk Thomas’s life and reputation. Nor could he conscript Cordelia for such a mission. The Coven needed her too much.

What he should have known, of course, was that Michael Langdon was three steps ahead of him.

As it happened, the valet who fed John Henry information regarding the Brimstone Society’s meetings was loyal to the Duke.

In truth, there was no revel to be held that night at all. Upon his arrival- replete with Venetian mask and ebony robe- Lord Langdon and a band of cronies ambushed John Henry, drugged, bound, and delivered him to the dungeon.

When he awoke, the interrogation began. Langdon wanted his father’s diary. The traitorous Valet, a lad named Nicholas Pimm, had seen John Henry opening his mail when the book arrived. Thankfully, he had not surmised its secret location.

The Duke of Langdon, with all the resources and backing of the London Morgue, the Bow St Runners, and his many networks of minions, announced to the world that John Henry had fallen off his horse during a hunting weekend on his property.

And here they are, eight months later.

“I want you to know that understand you, Lord Langdon,” John Henry tells the man who had him shackled to the ground. “When I read the diary, I could not help but see you differently. I have felt for you. All this time, I have.”

Langdon says nothing, only glares, pitiless, and potable, in the semi darkness.

“What makes me feel the greatest compassion,” continues John Henry, “is not the torments your father rained upon you; it isn’t the puppies he killed, or the nursemaids he whipped in front of you until you begged on your knees for mercy; it is not the fact that he ordered you beaten, or, on one occasion, starved for a month for saving the life of a caterpillar from being crushed in your path; it is not the fact that he watched you be deflowered in the red lanterned glow of a St Giles brothel when you were fourteen; it is not that had he made a show of welcoming you back when your schooling was finished, and mentored you in the bloodthirsty ways of the Brimstone Society, all the while knowing it made you sick; it is not the story of how he arranged for his mistress to seduce you, and how thrilled he was when you fell in love with her, and how they revelled to watch your heart bleed as they mocked you; it is not any of those things, Lord Langdon; it is the fact that you would do anything- including torture me- to stop it all from coming to light. It is the fact that you would rather people think that you are evil, than suffer humiliation. I pity you. For all of your wealth, for all of your power, for all that I am at your mercy, I pity you.”

There is silence.

“I could have had my father’s diary a hundred times over by now,” whispers Langdon after a time. His eyes shimmer, and his voice is choked with feeling. “I was patient with you. And merciful. But I NEED it now.” He hesitates. Doubt dances upon his beautifully wrought, half eclipsed face. “You are wrong. It is not because I fear being humiliated. I need the diary because I must… I must protect someone.”

John Henry sits back and considers this fascinating new information. “Isabella Darwood?” he asks.

“No.”

Not merely ‘no’, but an outraged ‘no.’

“Then… I can only assume,” says John Henry, “considering that you have not yet killed me or sequestered my lover, that it is someone in the Coven, or very close to it.”

It makes Michael angry how clever this man is.

That is probably one of the reasons the Earl of Mott chose him to become the keeper of the document that might have destroyed Leo Langdon, had he had the consideration to live a little while longer.  

“Why did you not expose the diary when you had the chance?” Michael asks, diverting the subject from himself.

“You would have retaliated,” says Goode pragmatically. “Thomas and I have been careful. But I suspect that Leo Langdon had some… sensitive material concerning Cordelia and Misty Day. I know that his library of blackmail material is now in your possession. I could not risk it coming to light.”

“I could do it now,” says Michael.

“I doubt it.”

Michael bristles. “Why not?”

“It would alienate you from the woman that you are devoted to.”

“Devoted to?” Michael manages.

“Yes. Whoever she is, she has been your guiding principle lo these many months, Langdon, though you may not know it yourself. I can hardly believe that I have been so blind…”

“I should slice you from ear to ear.”

“Because that would REALLY win Cordelia’s approval…” Goode says in a wry tone that makes Michael see red.

But even as he simmers, Michael considers the truth of what Goode is saying. It is clear to him as an illuminated manuscript, like golden text glowing against fat, textured blackletter. The fear of seeing you suffer a shred of hurt or indignity by the hand of Isabella Darwood- or anyone else- has brought him here this morning. What might resemble, to an outsider, an interrogation between a frail, bearded man in a jail cell, and the tormenter who holds him captive, is in fact a negotiation. No, Michael corrects himself, not even that; it is a plea. If it came to it, he would beg Goode for the diary. Having it is the only means by which to barter your protection from the Darwoods.

Save for killing Isabella.

Which he is not entirely ruling out either

Lord Goode regards Michael with appraising blue eyes. “Is it Ms. Montgomery?” he asks.

“You are being ridiculous.”

“Ms. Queenie?”

“Stop embarrassing yourself, Goode.”

“Could it be Ms. Benson?”

“What a clod pole you are…”

“Ms. Vanderbilt is very charming…”

“It is not Ms. Vanderbilt!”

Goodes verily twinkles. “Aaaah, but it is SOMEONE.”

Michael frowns. “No.”

“Perhaps it is some new addition to the group… Has Cordelia picked up a new stray kitten in my absence?”

Michael’s anger spikes. Goode’s characterization of you as a ‘stray kitten’ irks him. Only Michael may give you such names. Only Michael may appreciate your kitten-like qualities…

“Perhaps I have not met this young lady,” Goode concludes. “Could it be Misty’s friend from Leeds? Or the housekeeper’s daughter, Clementine? Or…. Is it that cousin of Coco’s whose Father was dying in a chalet in Austria? I remember Cordelia discussing it the night I went to attend your fake revel. It is not astonishing what details the mind chooses to retain, even after months of hardship?”

Damn it.

Michael does not look away from Goode’s questioning face. He will not gratify the man by displaying that weakness. “I could simply forget the diary…” he lies. Something moist begins to sting at his eyes as he speaks. “I could kill you, Goode, and then rain terror on your family. You forget that I am a Leviathan. You forget what I am capable of, what I can get away with!”

“Hurt me, Langdon, and you lose your chance with her forever.”

“Perhaps no one need know…”

“Could you ever rest knowing that your happiness has been fashioned from a mess of lies?” questions Goode. “You would live in fear every moment of your life. If your actions ever came to light, you could never hope to keep her love.”

‘Is this how love works?’ thinks Michael. That seems entirely wrong. If you killed everyone he has ever known, if you annihilated the earth itself, Michael would still love you.

Love you.

He keeps his face neutral, though the revelation nearly collapses him.

Love you. Yes. He does.

Michael would allow hellfire to consume his body if it meant protecting a single whorl of your eye lash.

He entered this dungeon with a mind to solve a problem. Instead, a much larger, more grotesque one has emerged, like mud shifting to reveal a fossil. It is a truth marvelous and terrifying.

Michael loves you with all of his being.

But how can this instrument of wickedness love someone so good?

When Michael is with you, his past melts away. You reduce him to nothing more than a pile of desperate, reacting love. It is like you said once: he is ‘your creature’. It is a feeling so perfect that Michael could die of it.

O god.

He has, after thirty years of life, become the embodiment of every trite poem ever written. He has become a veritable paragon for the affliction he has most feared. Hopeless. Desperate. Willing to do anything. Before now, Michael’s entire life has been devoted to the pursuit of power. Now, he would give it all away without a second thought, just to be near you.

“You know,” says John Henry, piercing the storm, “after reading the diary, I thought you it could help us to find common ground.”

“How soft you are, Lord Goode,” whispers Michael.

“I had rather wished to see a Brimstone Society Revel for myself,” continues Goode with a hint of a smile playing upon his wizened features. “I wanted to be convinced that you were not your father, that you do not engage in ritualistic rapes and murderers.”

“Perhaps I do.”

Goode outright smirks at this. “Though I have yet to witness one of your revels, Lord Langdon, I doubt it.”

“I would have killed you afterwards,” Michael confesses. “If it wasn’t for her, I would have slit your throat once I had the diary in my possession. But I cannot now, for the reasons you have expressed.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“Once I have the diary, and I let you walk out of here, you will run back to your Coven. What sort of ‘chance’ will I have then? There is NO WAY you will agree to keep silent on what happened to you. We could shake hands, here and now, and you could promise to keep to some story of our making, of you waking from your horse fall with amnesia. We could agree that you would tell everyone you went to Italy, or- better, by the pale looks of you- to Sweden. But how could I trust you?” Michael lets out an exhausted sigh. “The minute you were out of here, you would betray me to the coven. And she… would know what I did.”

Goode watches him intently. “You would not believe me if I promised to do otherwise, would you, Langdon?”

Michael shakes his head.

“Perhaps I should not trust you either,” says Goode. “Why would I believe that the man who has kept me shackled here like an animal in the darkness for eight months is capable of treating one of Cordelia’s girls kindly?”

Michael’s heart rips open.

He has not treated you kindly. Not at all…

O god.

“I will help you, Langdon. I will tell you the location of the diary provided that you promise to let me out. Bur this is all the faith that I can give you. And it is no little amount.”

Michael understands. Goode will provision him with the means to protect you. But he will not trust him to claim any ward of Cordelia’s as his.

“You need not fear the Coven’s vengeance,” promises Goode, as though anything but the possibility of binding his life with yours is of any consequence to Michael. “They will be furious, but you have far too much blackmail material on Cordelia, the members, and their families, for them to pose any threat to you. My Mr. Gallant will want, very much, to kill you. But I shall try to make him view matters in a practical light.”

Michael feels a sear of guilt upon his chest. Yes. Mr. Gallant SHOULD want to kill him. Michael would decorate this dungeon with the entrails of anyone who hurt you…

“The only vengeance that will mean anything,” Michael shocks himself by confessing, “is the that I will be barred from the woman I love, once she knows of my crimes.”

Surprise touches Goode’s face. “Who is she, Michael?”

“Miss Vanderbilt’s cousin,” Michael chokes out. “Her name is Y/n.”

Goode regards him with a mixture of uncertainty and awe. “I have lived forty-three years on this earth, Langdon. I have lived an unusually varied life. I thought I could be stunned by nothing. I was quite wrong.”

“Glad to be of service,” says Michael bitterly.

“Does the lady return your affections?”

The question momentarily overwhelms Michael. He desires nothing more than to file it away in his mind under ‘too painful to consider’. What is worse, his perceptions of the situation do not amount to anything resembling an answer.

Do you return his affections?

When Michael makes love to you, you respond.

O how you respond…

Nothing in Michael’s life has ever compared with the sweet totality of your surrender to him. You are so attuned to him, so eager to become the vessel of his lust and domination, so seemingly lost in mutual heart-liquefaction, that it makes him breathless to even contemplate it. That Michael could inspire such trust is almost beyond the scope of belief. And though his need to fuck you is feral, he longs, desperately, to live up to the miracle of your trust.

Which is impossible. Given the circumstances.

Michael has lost his fucking mind. It abandoned him when he put his cock in you. It flew away when the screams of your pleasure pierced his ears. It left the building when your body learned the rhythm of coupling.  

When you lie together in the quiet aftermath of love, Michael imagines that tendrils of your beautiful soul are caressing his gnarled one. The horror of his past lies silent. The only meaningful sound is that of air entering and leaving your body. The only measure of Michael’s worth is how much he might add to the calibration of your happiness.

Do you share his affections?

How can that be possible?

How? When all he has done is inflict pain?

“No,” he answers.

“Why do you say that?”

“I blackmailed her. I am still doing it actually.”

Goode allows his forehead to fall into his palm. He lets out an exasperated sound. “Never mind keeping me in a dungeon for eight months, Langdon. If Cordelia ever finds out about THAT, she’ll make a tea cozies out of your gonads, if you’ll pardon me.”

“She’s free to them,” says Michael. “I won’t need them anymore anyway.”

“Did you hurt her?” Goode questions sharply.

Michael does not wish to answer: ‘Only because she asked nicely.’ So, he simply shakes his head. “It began as a… deal,” he says. “I should not have propositioned Ms. Y/n as I did.” Michael feels bile rising in his throat. For a moment he thinks he may cast his accounts right there, into Goode’s jail cell. He chokes a sob instead. “I was everything that my Father fashioned me to be.”

Goode’s brow furrows.  “You regret your actions?”

Michael gazes unflinchingly into the better man’s face. “That is the worst of it, I do not.”

“And yet all the same, you have changed…”

“I love her,” says Michael, for the first time, out loud. “The moment I met her, she struck such crisis in me. I thought I hated her… I thought so for a very long time.”

“And now, it is too late to simply make your suit,” says Goode unhelpfully.

“Ms. Y/n would never have me, if she knew what I was,” breathes Michael.

“It seems to me that she already does.”

“She has no choice but to submit to my sexual games,” says Michael, unable to resist seeking the armour of villainy.

Michael’s prisoner glowers at him. “I assume that your contractual hold on Ms. Y/n- or whatever it is-” adds Goode with a look of disgust, “is nearing its termination?”

“You assume rightly. Which leads me to my proposition.”

“I am listening,” says Goode, marvelling at the wretchedness of the man before him.

“You will give me the location of the diary. I will retrieve it and use it to ward off the threat to Ms. Y/n. Then, you will remain here for a period of three nights, and four days, after which you will be set free to go, do and inform as you like.”

Goode grants this a period of silent, pregnant consideration, after which he says, “I think you intend to have the girl over here with you for the duration of the four days, don’t you, you damnable, unadulterated, perverted bastard?”

“As you have lately proven, Lord Goode, your intuition is rarely incorrect.”

“You want me to sit here, in my cell, WAITING, while you visit lord knows what unholiness on one of Cordelia’s girls?”

“If it helps to know,” offers Michael, “she rather enjo-”

“Stop. Right. There. Thank you, Langdon,” bites out Goode. “I will not have Cordelia gelding ME for my foreknowledge of such activities… should they ever come to light. Which they will not, if I have anything to do with it.”

“Mutually assured slaughter can be a wonderful thing, Lord Goode.”

“If I give you the location of the diary and you double cross me, Langdon, so help me-”

“I will not. I swear upon everything in this world I hold dear, which is only one thing.”

This convinces Goode. “All right,” he says. “I shall tell you.”

The answer comes. Michael hears it. Processes it.

But in his mind beats only one thought: three nights.

And ever after, you shall remain the lone habitant of Michael’s heart.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

Michael emerges from his house into a Spring day mottled with clouds.

“Did you acquire what you were looking for, My Lord?” inquires Radcliffe.

“Yes.”

“Where to now, Sir?”

“We are going to the Good Estate.”

Radcliffe’s eyes widen only slightly before he regains his habitual stoniness. “Very good, Sir.”

“We shall require shovels.”

Radcliffe’s colourless lips thin.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

 

 

In the orangery, beneath white light and the teeming fragrance of citrus plants, Isabella Darwood waits for Michael. Rain patters all over the sloping glass walls. She watches the lines of water as they streak across the surface. Some droplets are attracted to others, while some, though equal in distance, remain unaffected. The air in the room is hot. Isabella has left the top buttons of her pelisse unbuttoned. She knows that it is not the totality, but, rather, the intermittence of flesh that most men respond to, especially in the day time.

She wonders, if, perhaps, this time, she has gotten it all wrong. Maybe Michael will not come to her. What if he has not left this property to search his soul? Or what if, in searching it, Michael has not found Isabella to be its primary occupant?

If this is the case, then she will have to have a word with Albion this afternoon. Her brother will perform his unchivalrous duty tonight. I will be easy enough. Isabella has merely to inquire where your room is and provide Albion the key. Perhaps she will even let him go through with the deed in its entirety before calling witnesses.

She chafes at the thought. The plan reeks of desperation. Who ever would have thought Isabella might stoop to such efforts to recapture to attentions of Michael Langdon? When he was not much more than a mewling boy, Michael looked at Isabella as though she had climbed a ladder and hung every star in heaven herself. No one could be looked at like that and be unmoved.

The door of the great, glass room clicks open. He enters. Though her back its turned, Isabella feels Michael’s glare like heat.

“You’ve come,” she says, attempting to sound impassive. She turns around and graces him with a smile. It is a smile of understanding and forgiveness. It is a smile that says, ‘I am willing to forget that you fucked a penniless young girl with no redeeming qualities, when you could have been drowning yourself in ME’.

Michael walks up to her. He stands so close that she can breathe his cologne, the mint on his breath, the elemental scent that calls forth of a score of blissful and painful memories. The Duke looks like death. But even so, the sight of him is a golden dream that Isabella is loathe to wake from.

“I have come to tell you that it is over,” he says.

“I am glad that you have come to your senses, Michael.” Isabella keeps triumph out of her voice. She tilts her face upward, allowing him to kiss. But even when her eyes flutter shut, no kiss arrives.

“You must forget whatever harm you were planning to inflict upon Ms. Y/n,” he says.

Isabella’s eyes widen. Jealousy flares deep in her being. She knows she ought to control it, if only aesthetically. But for once, she cannot. “You mean, your ‘lover’?” she snarls.

“I have, this morning, retrieved the diary that my Father kept during the latter part of his life. It contains details about…everything. You. Me. Him.”

“You are lying,” Isabella says.

“I am not.”

No. No. It is impossible, Isabella reasons. It was the one entitlement of her relationship with Leo Langdon that she had never questioned: her right to secrecy. Leo had notebooks and ledgers on everyone, but nothing on her. There existed no record of Isabella’s wicked deeds, save for the stories she poured into the old man’s ears.  

“Shall I recount something that only he would know about?” Michael asks. His expression betrays no satisfaction in victory, nor any pity over her fall.

Isabella raises her chin up. “You have nothing.”

“The night you seduced Lord Coddington, you stole one of his letters to take back to Leo. It contained information about his selling government secrets to a stockbroker. The following week, you seduced his son, Oswald. The boy proclaimed to love you. You promised to meet him at the mermaid fountain at Vauxhall Gardens the next evening. You arranged to have Lord Coddington meet you there as well. What resulted was an altercation between father and son that led to Lord Coddington having his nose broken. You and Leo were in stitches over it. He opened a bottle of Chateau Laffite Rothschild, given to the Langdon family in 1687.”

Isabella closes her eyes against the words. Every detail rises in her mind, crystal clear as the hand-blown decanter Leo used to aerate the wine, and the beautiful, fluted glass she drank it from. 

“The following month, you convinced your brother that it might be a good idea to put Lady Silvia Cosgrove in a compromising position during a weekend party at Lady Bartleby’s. In the dead of night, Albion arrived in her room and attempted to force himself upon her. The results, for Lady Cosgrove, were catastrophic. Just as you intended.”

There rises in Isabella a rage that not even her pride can tame. She lunges forward, gasping, fully intending to claw Michael’s eyes from his hateful, beautiful face.

Michael captures her wrists and holds her back easily.

“Calm yourself Isabella…” he whispers. “No matter what you have done in the past, I now understand, as I have not before, that you too were his victim.”

The words permeate Isabella’s cloud of fury and she stills. She glares contemptuously at Michael. “You understand NOTHING.”

He releases her wrists.

“My father was cruel to you as well,” Michael says. “He manipulated you. He forced you to do terrible things, simply for his entertainment.”

“Is that what you think?” hisses Isabella. “Do you really believe I did not relish every second of Sylvia Cosgrove’s ruin? Do you think I did not enjoy pissing on the world as much as you and your father?”

“I do not doubt you did.”

Isabella steps closer. The exquisite control with which she has reigned in her anger her whole life long has melted like frost on skin. The injustice of it all fills her with crimson. She would like blood now, blood by the bath tub. But even that cheapest of pleasures must elude her now.

“I would have cherished breaking her,” she tells Michael. “I would have let Albion indulge all of his madness. Be grateful to your evil, whore mongering father, Michael Langdon for keeping his sordid little diary.”

“I am,” says Michael. “It saves me the trouble of having to hurt you both.”

“You could never…” whispers Isabella. “Your father was always right when he said you were weak. Even if I held a blade to that girl’s throat, your heart would not allow it.”

“Dare you test your theory?”

Isabella tastes fear then, for she sees the look in Michael’s eyes. 

“Your brother does not breathe on Ms. Y/n,” says Michael. “Do I make myself clear?”

It is command. Not an entreaty. With it, Michael turns and leaves Isabella to the orangery. She watches him retreat, watches the perfect line of his back and considers her next move.

……………………………………

You are dressing for dinner when the letter is slipped beneath the door of your room.

………………………………..

Y/n,

I have returned. You will see me in an hour in the music room. We can hardly communicate freely in the open, so I am writing you this note about what is going to occur later this evening.

I have arranged for you to receive a letter at nine o’clock. It will inform you of your Aunt Lavinia’s ‘worsened condition’ and call you to come at once to her home in Liverpool. The fact that you do not have an ‘Aunt Lavinia’ is beside the point. It is, as even your thick head has doubtless surmised, merely a ruse to excuse your absence for the next four days.

You will be spending the last of your three dreaded nights in succession at my home in Yorkshire. We shall be alone, and free to indulge in whatever proclivities we may find mutually satisfying. After the third night, you will be released from our agreement.    

You are, no doubt, jubilant to learn that your ordeal will soon be at an end.

Yours,

M.

…………………………………………………………………………….

You hold the crisp, thin paper to a candle flame and watch as it burns. It makes your heart heavy to destroy this tiny artefact of him, though you must do it. It is the same pathetic feeling you had this morning, when you climbed into the clawfoot tub to wash Michael off you.

The flame spits a little when it meets the spots on the paper where your salty tears have fallen.

…………………………………………………………………….

You fear that you are late for the impromptu concert that Madison and Queenie have convinced Lady Snow to indulge them in. As you quicken your pace through the gallery lined with statues of roman senators that leads to the music room, a hand closes over your mouth.

Were it not for the smell of mint, bergamot and an underlying note of heart splitting familiarity, you would swear that you are about to be assaulted by Albion Darwood. Instead, you find yourself swept into something resembling a storage closet, lined with empty pots and earthenware, and kissed soundly by Michael Langdon.

It is no gentle kiss, but a brand of ownership. The Duke savors your murmur of surprise as his serpentine tongue darts into your mouth. Teeth graze your lips and bite down. You accept all of this greedily, toppling into the darkness.

“I thought you said we would not be able to talk this afternoon.”

“The only one talking is you, chit,” Michael grates out, twining a hand roughly into your hair and returning your face to his plundering kiss. “We do not have much time,” he breathes, as his hand descends to your skirts, and makes deft work of the offending fabric.

You sigh at the touch of him, warm, and welcome between your thighs. His palm cups your quim, at once deathly urgent, and leisurely.

The din of passing guests fills the corridor outside. If you were a better person, you think, you might cast your mind to the fact that Zoe has likely saved a seat for you in the music room and excuse yourself. But you are a wicked creature, and think of nothing but the gifted hand at your vulva.

“Let’s see how wet you already are,” whispers Michael, as he slips two long, ringed digits into the slick heat of your body. He grins at the seeping evidence of your arousal. “That’s my good girl, so like you to be rutting against my hand…”

O god, you ARE rubbing against him. You did not even realize you were doing it! It is the darkness, you think. The pitch black is liberating.

“Your hot little quim is slavering all over my fingers, isn’t it?” Michael taunts, pumping his fingers in and out in shattering rhythm.

“Yes it is…” you admit, knowing that you will catch hell otherwise.

He kisses you again, deeply. You whimper as his hand leaves your quim, painting a wet trail against your thigh.

Though you cannot see him, you can imagine the cruel smile on Michael’s face.

“I know you would like to come, pet,” he whispers, in a babying voice that is a mockery of compassion. “You’d love that above anything, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, Michael.”

You feel two fingers run lightly over your bottom lip. They are wet with your essence, you have time to realize, before Michael swoops down and licks you like you are a spoon of strawberry ice. Before you can turn the carnal gesture into a kiss, he pulls away.

“My poor, needy chit,” he says thickly. “So desperate to fuck yourself on my fingers…”

You hear the distinctive, booming voice of Lord Hasbro as he walks past the door of the closet.

“Michael…” you plead. “Please…”

“You know how I love to hear you beg.”

There is a pause. Then, the rustle of muslin.

You sigh with relief as Michael’s hand travels under your skirts again. The pads of his fingers find the wet seam of your labia but stop short of applying pressure. “But before we go any further,” he says, “I need to hear you say that you understand this does NOT count as one of my nights.”

Honestly the thought did not occur to you.

But you will not let Michael know that.

“There is touching of an… intimate nature going on, Michael,” you say, as earnestly as you can manage through the throb of your need.

“It isn’t NIGHT, you daft girl,” he grates out.

“But Mi-”

“ARE THERE ANY STARS OUT, SLUT?”

In the end, it is not Michael’s logic, but the way he hisses the word ‘slut’ that cancels any possibility of protest.

“Fine, Michael,” you say, feeling your quim pulse beneath your skirts. “You win.”

“I do indeed.”

In the dark, perilously pottery-filled room, Michael’s fingers return to their work. When he commands you to spend, you do, muffling your cry against the shoulder of his dinner jacket. And though night has not yet fallen, you do see stars, glittering like diamonds beneath your eyelids, as ecstasy roars through you.

Michael holds you nestled against him through the trembling aftershocks.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers.

A reverent quiet fills the tiny, lightless closet.

…………………….

Ten minutes later, you enter the peony-filled temple of decorum that is Lady Snow’s music room. Zoe waves you over to sit next to her. You smile at Madison and Queenie, who sit, with great poise, before the piano forte.

Michael arrives separately. He looks immaculate, save for the faint sheen covering his brow, and a slight dampness on one shoulder of his dinner jacket.

“The ‘Dark Lord’ returneth,” quips Zoe, eyeing his looming form.

Owing to the great number of people in the room, Michael is forced to sit on the setee behind you.

“Good afternoon, Lord Langdon,” you say politely, turning to him with a small nod.

“YOU might think so, Ms. Y/n,” he replies haughtily.

Michael’s incivility wins him a damning look from Zoe. Before she can say anything, a hush falls over the room and Madison begins to play.

……………………………………………………..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck with this long, regency era turd-nugget-in-a-chamber-pot of a story! Your kindness and support continues to render me a puddle of disbelief and gratitude. Thank you for letting me tell y'all this fic! All my love, gentle readers:D :D :D  
> Sorry that there was so little smut in this one (and not even high quality smut. Just run of the mill utility closet smut) There was a lot of clunky info dumping and plot scurrying in this chapter and, as of posting, I am not 100% thrilled with it tbh! But, o well, at least it sets up four days and three nights of Duke-ly debauchery:D  
> I had fun learning about regency era sex terms that Myrtle and Coco could say. My favorite one, which unfortunately could not be used here because it does not really pertain to anyone in the story is 'lobster kettle'. A gal who loves banging navy soldiers on shore leave 'makes a lobster kettle of herself'. Also, a man who wenches a lot is known as a 'beard splitter'.  
> Anyway, on to the final three nights and other ensuing dramas!  
> Much love!  
> You guys inspire me to no end!!  
> xoxoxoxo  
> ps. I have not yet gotten around to seeing 'AHS Freak Show' (I know, I know I am philistine and a blasphemer) but Dandy Mott is 'Crispin Mott', cus he seems like he's got charisma haha


	9. Chapter 9

“Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.”

― John Donne

………………………………….

Beautiful objects litter Langdon Manor like spoils of war. Michael’s aesthetic appreciation for his paintings, carpets, manuscripts, and fragments of Babylonian temple walls, is only enhanced by the knowledge that they have been bought with blood, snatched or bullied away from scores of original owners over the course of centuries.

It was never a warm house. Since the earliest days of his remembrance, even the food was cold. Langdon ancestors insisted on the kitchens being built some distance from the dining room, so as to limit the proximity of the servant class. 

In preparation of your arrival, all in the great, gloomy house has been dusted and polished to shine. Every tabletop bears a bowl of fresh cut flowers. How long has it been, Michael wonders, since anyone here bothered with flowers?

The hour is nearly eight. Through a window in the nave arcade, Michael watches the road. Beyond the lawn stripes and topiaries cut in the shape of thrashing snakes, the sky is apricot with the setting sun. Any moment, you will be here, filling his lair. At the thought, a desire sweeps over Michael so sharp it resonates in his body like stabbing pain. He casts his mind to all of the places in his ancestral manse where sexual congress might be instigated. The master bath seems an obvious choice. And the observatory, with its tall lancet windows and tables heaped with scrolls of star maps is begging to be defiled. The only danger there is that you might become distracted by some or other scholarly thing as Michael is fucking you into floor. What a chisel that would be to the ego!

Perhaps Michael ought simply to part your legs and spend the entirety of the next few days with his face buried in your perfect pussy. The cock in his trousers surges at the notion. Never, in all his years as a profligate, has Michael known a woman half so eager to be coaxed to pleasure. Every touch and word from you is a provocation to be bound, sucked, eaten, fucked and plundered. Your unconditional acceptance of his sexual dominance stuns him. If Michael were still the young fool he once was, he might be in grave danger of mistaking it for something deeper than that.

Which it is not. 

Outside, stars appear as pinpricks against the pinkening sky. You are late. By Michael’s calculations, you should have arrived here an hour ago. Have you forestalled leaving Snow Hall? Perhaps your attention has been averted by a proffer of marriage from one Lord Chesterton. Michael feels the blood chill inside his veins. The idea of another man inhaling your air, whispering in your ear, slipping his grubby, undeserving fingers into the haven of your quim fills him with a need to slaughter.

The revelation that his bride comes to his bed with ‘knowledge of men’ is enough to put most marriage-minded gentlemen of the ton off. But maybe Chesterton is different. Chesterton, with his elegant manners, peacock wardrobe, and discreet interest in ‘natural philosophy’ seems just the sort to have advanced beyond such parochial expectations, damn his whiskers.

If you are not here within a quarter hour, Michael will upend all of Yorkshire.

And what if you do not come at all?

Are three successive nights with him beyond the scope of your endurance?

Michael feels his eyes mist and sting. How shameful. When did he begin to slide back into his worst tendencies of self-indulgent rumination?

This is intolerable.

The loss of you is touching his consciousness prematurely. Michael tells himself that nothing can be done about it, so why dismantle what little, perfect happiness he has been parcelled by dwelling on the future? After all, he should be welcoming your departure from his life!

You’ve ruined his peace.

You’ve ruined him.

‘Chao Ad Abo’ he thinks ruefully. It has been the rallying phrase of the Brimstone Society for decades. Yet Michael never tasted chaos such as this.

Turning from the window to pace, he considers new strategies of blackmail. It would not be a difficult thing to use it to buy himself another fifty nights.

Michael could even strong-arm you into marrying him.

What a dream that would be: your lifetime overlain upon his own like the clinging body of a lover. What are five measly nights? If he had more time, Michael could satisfy his need to shackle you to his bed and spank your ass raw, but also the seemingly discordant need to protect you from all ills in the world, forever. Everyone would know to whom you belong. You would be Michael’s companion, and he would watch your beloved face grow old.

‘If your actions ever came to light, you could never hope to keep her love.’

The truth of the John Henry Goode’s statement grinds Michael’s heart like a seed inside a mortar.

The man currently withering in the bowels of his dungeon is correct in all things but one. ‘Keeping’ your love will never be the pertinent issue. It is impossible to ‘keep’ what one never had to begin with.

……………………………………..

In a gesture that suggests a practiced hand in the arranging of clandestine liaisons, Michael hired a hackney coach to convey you from Lady Snow’s home to his own. It is big enough to comfortably accommodate six, but you sit within the vestibule alone, sticky with the resin of anticipation.

The journey takes you through a landscape wherein all is riotously green, even by the faint glimmer of stars. Every time the coach lurches, the lately used muscles below your waist are shot through with a reminder of last night, and this afternoon. You catch your reflection against the darkened, whirring scenery in the window, and examine your face for outward signs of a heart that is breaking.

When did the quotient of life’s joy begin to be measured in time spent with your blackmailer?

Best not to think about it now.

Soon enough, you will return to your former, quiet existence. Once more you will be a wallflower at the fringes of society gatherings, skulking with a polite smile and borrowed finery. You will return to books, astrolabes and the comforts of friends. Like any life, yours will bear its griefs and joys. Then, one day, it will cease, and the longing for Michael Langdon will follow you, like a faithful dog, even unto the mists of the afterlife.

Still, you regret nothing.

You intend to live fully, these four days. You will drink the nights. You will keep the details. Everything will be written legibly in your memory, even what is happening now: the sky that is a richer black than velvet lining a jewellery case, the stars glittering like diamonds spilled against it; the snow drops that thread the tall grass; the fragrance of cherry blossoms and damp chestnut trees that permeates the road (it is achingly lovely, and nothing at all like the burning sulphur you imagined might rise from the ancestral seat of Langdons).

The northern part of the Duke’s land is shrouded in forest. It has an air of the primeval, as though fit for centaurs, dragons, and other unearthly creatures to dwell in. The trees grow tall and twisting, with fat roots sprouting from the soil. Then, past a curving gateway of elm trees, the road broadens, and Langdon Manor comes into view.

Approaching the house, you are assailed by a multiple immediate impressions.

The building imposes itself upon the landscape like a tyrant, gray, turreted, and so outsized that only just such a wilderness could accommodate it. It is evident that this mass of limestone and marble exists to argue the omnipotence of the family that commissioned it. The entrance portico is a pantheon, all pilasters and spilling masses of shadow. The pediment over it is a frieze depicting horned demons circling a sun disk, vaguely Egyptian in character, carved with the letter ‘L’. Statuary of multiheaded hellhounds glare from the rooftops.

Confronted with all of this, you find yourself thinking, absurdly enough, about the milky ropes of fluid that spent from Michael’s cock last night. He adorned your stomach with the hot substance. Would he deign to fill it too? What would it be like to envelop the contour of his enormous prick with your mouth, you wonder, to fall on your knees and become nothing more than a suckling, supplicating vessel of the Duke’s pleasure? You want to do this. You want to make Michael forget words. You want to make him spasm out all of that damnable poise. This is what Michael has made of you! You have only to think of him and decency scurries from your being like so many rats pouring out of a shipwreck. If anyone finds out that you are going to be with him tonight, your penchant for debauchery will be declaimed the ton over. Noses would wrinkle in your presence as though you are a rack of spoiled mutton. You doubt that even the Vanderbilts would suffer you under their roof, if they knew. Surely, they would think you liable to rub and mate with every solid surface you encounter. And who would want that?

You wonder if it is love, or the impending absence of it, that makes you reckless enough to poke your head out of the coach and breathe of the night air.

In the distance, some steps before the house, you see a lone figure, clad in black. He is standing composed as a watchman and, even as the night seems to darken around him, Michael glows. His hair, an amalgam of wheat, honey, and gold in the lamplight, is disturbed by the gentlest of breezes. The sight of him awakens a passion in you akin to being burned alive.

When the coach stops. Michael makes no overtures to help you out of it.

Legs stiff and arse benumbed, you wobble out. The coachman deposits your trunk on the gravel for a footman to attend to, then, without a word, abandons you to your fate.

For a moment, you stand there, staring at Michael’s hessians as though their polished leather contains all that is interesting in the world.

“Come here,” he says. A low, harsh command. When you are within reaching distance, Michael’s hand captures your chin. “You are late,” he growls.

“I made as much haste in leaving as decorum would allow, Sir,” you say.

It is true. You barely had time to pack your belongings, mumble apologies to Lady Snow (whose eyes you could practically hear rolling inside of her head), and hug Coco goodbye before fleeing Snow Hall to attend to your ‘sick aunt’. Moreover, you spent the entire journey breathless with impatience to be with him. To be with this BRUTE.

“You tarried,” accuses Michael.

“I did no such thing.”

“I doubt it.” His voice is sharp, and in his eyes there is something more unsettling than mere lascivious intent.

You marshal your thoughts. What could you have possibly done to displease him? You parted mere hours ago!

Michael does not wait for your rebuttal. “Did you think that I would be content to wait for you like one of your dandyish swains?” he asks.

You blink.

‘Dandyish swains’?

Good god. Could he be referring to… Lord Chesterton?

This is the odd thing about discourse with Michael Langdon: most of the time the tone with which he speaks to you is intentionally demeaning. Yet often, the meaning of what he says contrasts with this delivery style. For instance, the unmistakable insinuation of this last statement is that you possess a retinue of admiring males; that you are, in fact, DESIRABLE to said ‘dandyish swains’ (plural). You might be inclined to believe that the Duke is mocking you, were it not for the distinct impression that, were Chesterton or any other ‘swain’ to stumble into the portico, a homicide may well be the result. 

Halting further consideration, Michael draws you against him. His hand kneads your backside. He kisses you, hard. The kiss is a dangerous bliss; like eating the sharpest, shiniest shard of starlight. You fall against the slide of his mouth, senses heightened, every part of you seeming to exist in service of the kiss. The encircling night is kindling for your arousal; the smell of Michael mingling with woodsmoke, the scrape of your feet against gravel, the violence of his grip, even the horrible gray mansion that looms beyond him.

Abruptly, Michael pulls away. “So eager…” he observes, as though it amuses him.

It occurs to you, then, that you have not yet crossed the threshold of the house, that you are, in fact, dangerously close to allowing yourself to be molested out of doors, where anyone passing the windows, might observe your disgrace.

“Are we all alone here, Michael?” you manage to ask.

“Almost entirely.”

“Almost?” you sputter.

“There is a skeletal staff,” he replies.

Panic blooms. “I-is that strictly necessary, Michael?

Michael’s frowns. “Do you expect ME to maintain this house, chit? Am I to be a cook and a laborer? Or perhaps you do not have your hands full as it is with carnal servitude and feel the need to add ‘baking puddings’ to your bill of duties?”

The way Michael delivers the phrase ‘carnal servitude’ sends a burn to your cunt. His logic is irrefutable: you did NOT come here to make puddings.

“My people know how to be discreet,” says the Duke. “One of the perks of having a murderous reputation is that it can be relied upon to ward off betrayal.”

Michael’s eyes drift from your face down the line of your body before turning toward the great doors of the house.

“Come,” he says, and clasps your hand in his.

…………………………….

Owing to the manor’s enormous size, Michael elects to start off the ‘tour’ in the place where he suspects you will be seduced most readily.

You have never before witnessed the sort of excess you find in the Langdon Library.

Envy feasts upon your entrails as you look about a cathedral-sized octagon, five stories high whose walls are shelves. Everywhere, books rise like fortifications, except for where they give way to a stone fireplace and a quartet of gargoyles. In the centre is a row of vitrines filled with all manner of specimens and artifacts. Among them, you spy jars full of dead, pickled creatures, fetish objects gleaming with patterns of cowry shells; the horn of a woolly rhinoceros and a Mycenean burial mask of paper-thin gold.

The ceiling above your head is a dome frescoed with ivory clouds that swirl around a central ‘Eye of Providence’. You feel like a mote of dust beneath the regard of that eye, floating weightless in the vellum and leather scented air.

You imagine that you could spend a lifetime in this library, in strictest solitude, and be almost happy. 

“Are all of these books yours, Michael?”

Your question echoes in the enormity of the chamber.

“No,” he replies with dripping sarcasm, “I purloined them. Of course they are mine, idiot girl, I am the only legitimate thing my Father ever sired.”

In the dim light of the library, Michael’s face is a striking alchemy of angles and planes. ‘He is my lover,’ you think. How bizarre that seems! The Duke of Langdon has sucked your quim as though the folds of it were painted with ambrosia. Yet, there are still moments when you feel unequal to the task of speaking to, or even looking at him.

“Were your ancestors prolific readers?” you ask.

“My ancestors were prolific killers and schemers. Their enterprises required vast reserves of knowledge.” Michael gestures to the forest of books. “The study of poisons alone takes up three of the shelves in that alcove over there. It is useful material. I daresay your ‘Coven’ friends would benefit from learning how to dispose of their enemies with less theatricality and more efficacy.”

Your abdomen contracts and unfurls like a sponge at the mention of the Coven.

“Funny,” you say, unable to resist the provocation. “It was my impression that your Brimstone Society gathering involved rather a lot of ‘theatrics’.”

Michael’s smile is a predatory. “Pity you could not stay to see it through, pet. Now that we are better acquainted, I daresay you might have enjoyed aspects of it. Or do you prefer being humiliated only privately?”

You force your gaze to the wall of books.

“Do you spend a great deal of time here?” you ask, pivoting from the subject of revels. “Or has this library already yielded all of its secrets?”

Your footsteps click and clack against the polished granite of the floor as you peruse the length of the wall, trailing the spines of various books with your fingers. You linger a little against the Babylonian Talmud, and the earliest possible printed copy of ‘Geographia Cosmographia’ by Claudius Ptolemy.

“When I was young, I came here a great deal,” Michael says with an unreadable expression. “The place has been recently restored. Before, there were narrow spaces between a few of the shelves and walls. They were so dark and full of spiders that he would never think to look for me there.”

You try not to appear shocked by this unprovoked invocation of his childhood.

You do not ask who ‘he’ is. Instinctively, you know that Michael is talking about his father, Duke Leo Langdon.

“Your Father was cruel,” you say softly. It is not a question, but rather, an acknowledgement of legend.

“Artfully so,” replies Michael.

“Is that why you left England?”

The Duke’s eyes flash like winter sunlight. He looks as though he cannot begin to fathom conceding such information TO YOU.

‘If only he would lay his mind open!’ you think. You want to know everything; everything that Michael’s life has been, the good and the bad. You would cherish all of him without condition! Your love for Michael is a universe with no physical laws, where matter makes its course undaunted by the tyrannical gravity of morality. 

“Why did you leave?” you ask, trying again, casually as you can manage.

Michael remains inscrutable. “The country was not big enough to contain two beings of such evil,” he says. “I merely gave my father his latitude.”

“You are not evil, Michael,” you say, without even pausing to consider if it may be untrue.   

“What do you know of evil?” he says a little sharply.

“I know the same as any other human being, Michael. The world is not, I think, composed of blatantly evil people doing blatantly evil things. It is not a garden, which may be pruned of ‘weeds’. There is some small stratum of evil- be it greed, or cruelty or weakness, or merely negligence- existing in everyone. Or, at least, the POSSIBILITY of it.”

“There is none in you,” he says vehemently.

“O Michael, were that it were so!”

“It IS so. I am better acquainted with the affliction of evil than angels like you can imagine. I am, in every way that is not literal, the son of the Devil…” Michael runs his hands through the rivering gold of his hair. “But why mar this evening with talk of the Devil, little swot?” he says with smooth finality, “when it could be better spent fucking you against these dusty old bookshelves?”

With that, he crosses the floor of the library, and pins you with his arms against the wall of leather-bound spines.

The minty-bergamot smell of Michael alights your being. He is so close that you might count each blade in his sweep of lashes. With what you are sure is greater fortitude than it took for Queen Boudica to rebel against the occupying forces of the Roman Empire, you resist the need to close the distance between his lips and yours.

“What perfect little slut,” Michael whispers, pressing his nose into your hair, “arriving here to be at my beck and call…”

“I am simply… honouring the tenets of our agreement,” you say, swallowing back a sigh as Michael’s tongue finds galloping pulse of your throat.

“Liar.” His teeth graze your jugular. “You would beg for me to fuck you even if your reputation did not depend upon it.”

The statement sends a shower of sparks through your brain. You are too aroused to think clearly, but the suggestion that you might carry on like this with him, beyond the mandate of your ‘agreement’, fills you with terrifying hope.

“You would have given me that pretty little cunt in the middle of Myrtle Snow’s drawing room if I’d wanted it, wouldn’t you?”

Evading the humiliating question, you turn to grant him greater access to your neck.

Michael pulls back entirely. “I do not speak merely to hear myself,” he warns. “When I ask you a question, I expect an answer.”

How can he do this? How can he turn, in mere seconds, from inferno to coagulating ice?

“I must admit that I believed the question to be a rhetorical one,” you say.

You know that this bit of cheek is going to require a penalty.

The suspense is delectation.

You gasp when Michael yanks down the top of your dress.

“As usual,” he pronounces, “you are dressed like a blind nun officiating an Easter parade.”

Michael pulls away the provoking cotton and silk, like a scavenging bird tearing apart a carcass ripping your stays and tossing your overskirt over one of the vitrines.

All that stands, now, between Michael and your bare body is the gauze of your chemise. Before you can remind him of the already limited scope of your wardrobe, he swoops down.

Michael laves, dampening the fabric at your breast. “You are at Langdon Manor now,” he says, replacing his mouth plucking fingers. “Do you know what happens to naughty chits like you in my house?”

You do not know, exactly. But you would wager that it involves fornication.

In one motion, Michael fists your chemise and tears it in half. He proceeds to peel the vestiges from you, glorying in the clash of black-clad power and naked vulnerability.  

When the answering burn in your quim is all but unbearable, Michael picks you up and hoists you over his shoulder like a ragdoll.

You beat at his back with clenched fists. “Put me down!”

“As you wish.”

You are deposited before one of the vitrines.

In a gesture of ineffable, coaxing power, Michael slides his palm against the nape of your neck and guides you down to bend over it, so that your cheek is kissing the cold glass. “Stay there,” he bids.

You do, even as the anchoring pressure of the hand abandons you. Michael walks to one of the vitrines and opens the glass panel.

“I suspected that you might be in need of discipline,” he says icily. “So, I provisioned for it.”

He pulls out a large box. The lid is enameled with gold and crusted with champagne coloured gems. You wonder what could possibly reside in such a gaudy receptacle. The lid is lifted, and Michael retrieves its contents.

The sight of the thing Michael is holding makes you twist up in alarm.

“Head down,” Michael scolds.

You reassume your position, heart thrumming against the cold surface.

The Duke smiles pitilessly at the sight of your squirming. The black handle of the flogger he brandishes hangs with a limp, but lethal looking mass of thongs. He brings it up as if to admire it in better light, then slices the air with one elegant stroke. The air around the leather tails whistles with the motion.

It excites you terribly. You do not wish to contemplate what sort of person this makes you.

“Do not worry, pet,” Michael croons, coming to stand behind you and pressing his clothed erection against the wet, quivering flesh of your cunt. “It is not the kind they use in the navy. It will not puncture that beautiful skin.”

As if to prove the benign nature of the instrument, Michael drags the rubbery, multitudinous tendrils across the small of your back. As this is happening, the longest digit of his hand probes your quim. You curse yourself for grinding against him, for eagerly sucking up the ringed invader.

As Michael pumps his finger in and out, a discordantly reverent sound escapes him. “Yes, that’s it my treasure… May I whip you now?”

You nod wordlessly.

“My perfect Y/n…”.

The euphoria of the pumping finger is amplified by a arrival of a stinging blow to your arse.

TWACK

It is not what you expected.

Every coil of the flogger heralds its own bliss. 

The next blow is positioned lower, with a few of the tendrils licking the seam of your cunt. 

TWACK

“You like it, don’t you?” Michael asks, his own voice thick with the revelation.

You nod against the surface of the vitrine.

TWACK

Michael adds another finger to your quim. He is rubbing relentlessly now.

TWACK

The flogger sings as it delivers more delirious streaks of pleasure-pain.

Why do you like this?

Why are you like this?

How can you have this forever?

You do not attempt to prevent your tears from falling. With any luck, Michael will mistake them as the result of physical sensation alone.

After delivering a final, TWACK.

Michael places the flogger next to you on top of the glass. You jerk forward, stunned to immobility when the Duke sinks to his knees, peels your labia part, and buries his mouth and nose to the hilt. 

Thoughts are swept from your mind like leaves in a November gale as Michael laps at the entrance of your quim. Inside it, his fingers thrust and curl.

In a matter of moments, you come against the tongue that has lately called you every sort of name.

When you have recovered your breath, Michael gathers you to him.

You are practically purring against chest as he carries you through the library, to the study.

Never in your life have you been held like this, as though the loss of you would put out the stars and shatter the firmament.

…………………………..

Hours after your fateful first flogging, having ordered supper and eaten it beneath the bleak stare of the gargoyles guarding the library, then fucking one more time, this time, rather lazily, on the settee in the adjoining study, you and Michael find yourselves opposite one another, naked and recumbent a large clawfoot bathtub.

The air in the master bathing room is thick with steam and candlelight. The ornately plastered ceiling looms high and the floor is a blue and ochre infinity of iznik tiles.

In this watery haven, time stretches like spun sugar. Michael washes you, teases you, argues with you.

You are trying to recall how your conversation even came to the subject of Jean-Baptiste Lamarck’s recently published book (Michael views the idea that there is a ‘force that perpetually tends to make order’ and push organisms toward greater complexity laughable to the point of insult) when something occurs to you.

Something which you are, regrettably, moved to speak aloud.

“It’s strange,” you tell him, watching a pear blossom scented sphere of soap melt against your hand.

“What is strange, chit?”

“It would seem that I take greater pleasure in disagreeing with you than I do in agreeing with anyone else.”

Michael’s brow knits beneath the wet disorder of his curls. “What is so strange about that? I am cleverer and more diverting than any of your chuckle-headed friends.”

You swipe his knee playfully. Michael’s reflexes are lightning quick as he captures the offending hand in his grip, sending ripple of water over the edge of the tub.

Quite frankly, the jolt of fear you feel arouses you. Perhaps the wider world would name you ‘deviant’ for this. But you are well beyond caring.

“It is true,” says Michael, drawing the inside of your wrist to his mouth and grazing it with his teeth. “You have atrocious taste in nearly everything, clothes, books, ideals; but most especially in the people with whom you choose to associate, present company excluded of course. But then, that is not really a choice, is it?”

There is an ache conjured behind your breastbone upon hearing Michael say this. You lean forward and kiss him.

Michael does not move, but, likewise, makes no effort to prevent you to lavishing him with wet, misguided ardour.

“I regret none of what has happened between us,” you whisper when you pull back.

“I DO regret,” says Michael unconvincingly. “I regret not ruining all of you. It would certainly teach Cordelia and her ilk a lesson…”

 “What is wrong with the Coven?” you ask. “It is necessary work we do. I admit, I believe that you are inclined to be sympathetic of our cause. Forgive me if that is presumptuous.”

It is not lost on you that you have just asked a naked man with whom you are sharing a bathtub to forgive you for being ‘presumptuous’ for thinking he might not, in fact, be in league with rapists and chauvinists.

“Why is it difficult to accept that I am a malefactor?” he asks, silkily, “that you have allowed a serpent into your garden, to eat up all of your ripe fruit?”

Michael’s hair looks darker, saturated as it is with water. There are droplets trickling down his face, his arms, the smooth planes of his pectorals, and the small, brown coins of his nipples. You understand, at last, why Odysseus tied himself the mast of his ship, just so that he might experience the joy of the siren’s song. Though THIS particular siren is a mean one, he enthralls you no less.

If he the Duke of Langdon wishes to cast repulsion in into your heart, he will have to work harder.

“You may be a serpent, Michael, but you let Lady Meade into the Brimstone Society.”

“What will one not do for family?” he says sardonically, leaning against the back of the tub to watch you with hooded eyes. Boldly, you forge on.

“I am not convinced. You claim to loathe the Coven and all that it stands for, but, aside from bewhoring me, you have done nothing to harm us, discredit us, or cease our activities.”

Is it your imagination or does Michael actually wince at the reference to his ‘bewhoring’ you?

“Perhaps that is because I consider the Coven beneath the effort of destroying,” he says. “Why would I bother to make the world your hell, pet, when it already is? You are a woman, are you not?”

For a long time, you look at Michael. A new and frightening intuition rises in your being. It is more than mere besotted epiphany. It is a revelation of who he has been all along.

“I think, Michael, that you are- and have been, since the day you arrived back in England- attempting to change things.”

“Codswollop,” he snaps.

“I do not think so,” you say, reaching for the ball of soap at the bottom of the tub and accidentally brushing his testicles.

Michael smiles at your mortification. You decide to cover it up by soaping his shoulders.

“Are you not still buying my silence?” he asks. “Were the scandal of your behaviour known to the ton, you would go from non-entity to notoriety in a matter of hours. I suspect the stain of you would spread to your merry cousin Ms. Vanderbilt too. And Lady Goode- we must not forget her- who, in her unforgivable stupidity, allowed you to fall into my hands.”

Michael is saying all of this, and yet he is allowing you to wash him, leaning into your touch. When he tires of passivity, he snatches the fragrant ball.

He washes you in retaliation, making a particular point of your breasts and arse. Once ablutions are complete, Michael’s hand slips beneath the water in a quest for your quim.

You gasp as expert fingers stroke circles against your core.

“Fuck,” Michael breathes, as though the act drives him, and not you, to incoherence.

Watching focus blur in his pale eyes, you arch your hips toward him, inviting the broadness of two ringed digits to slip inside of you. 

The water stirs, and you are taken up with a notion.

Tentatively, you reach between Michael’s parted thighs and find the jutting length his cock. Sound erupts from his lips, deep and guttural. You close your fingers around the thick length, driven to repeat the motion, now with less hesitation.

Neither the thumb rubbing against your swollen button, nor the fingers buried in your quim have ceased their ministrations. But what you say next, stills them entirely.

“I-I want to suck your cock.”

Your mouth grows very dry as Michael stares at you.

“O, do you now?”

For all his snarling, you are close enough to Michael to perceive that he has yet to draw breath.

You drop your gaze.

“Look at me,” he commands, tracing a damp finger over the side of your cheek.

Michael’s eyes are as clear and urgent as an alpine river. 

He stands up, pouring water all over you.

Walking out of the tub, Michael wears his nakedness like a suit tailored for him by the cream of Saville Row. He dries himself with the towel draped over the armchair. Though you avert your eyes from the swell of his cock, you cannot help but feel suffused with a torrent of adrenaline.

Once dry, Michael takes a seat in the armchair and proceeds to flatten you with a look of total authority. For a few moments, he says nothing, merely watches as you pickle in a brine of shame, dread, and cooling bath water.

“You want my suck my cock?” he says after an age. 

“I do.”

You have three nights left. What would be the point of prevaricating?

Michael’s cruel laughter crackles through the last tendrils of steam in the room. He uncrosses his legs and parts them to your mesmerized stare.

The Duke’s eyes do not leave your face for a moment as his hand travels downward to close around the hilt of his ruthlessly engorged cock. Like the apt pupil you have ever been, you watch the glide and pull of the appendage.

That cock is the sinew that holds up the corpus of your world.

You want to bury your cheek in the wiry nest of gold at its base. You want to taste the tip where it glistens with moisture. You want to nuzzle that fascinating sac that appears to contain within it not one, but two distinct, heavy orbs. 

Michael’s teeth clench. His chest rises and falls deeply. HE is the one stroking his whore pipe, so why are YOU the one who feels irredeemably dirty?

“You want this?” Michael taunts. Despite his exertions, he sounds calm and cold.

“I-I do,” you say, driven to aggravation. “You know that I do!”

Michael ceases stroking. “Show me how badly you want it.”

Upon hearing this, the very last of your dignity scuttles away like a cockroach beneath the flare of a candle.

You rack your brain as to the best method of demonstrating ‘how badly you want it.’ You decide that a good overture would be to get out of the tub and cross the room to Michael.

You hope that you resemble, more naiad than kraken as you step out of the tub.

But before you can advance, his voice halts you.

“Crawl,” it instructs.   

You swallow. What could be more disgraceful?

Rising absurdly from the mists of your memory comes the voice of Michael’s aunt, Lady Miriam Meade: ‘Kneel before your King,’ she said at the Brimstone Society revel, and Michael’s hoard of followers instantly assumed their place at his feet.

“I am dangerously close to being out of patience with you…” warns Michael with a sigh of theatrical exasperation. “You practically BEG to have my cock in your ungrateful mouth and then when I give you a simple-”

You drop to the floor.

Michael is struck to silence by your acquiescence of his request.

But why would he be surprised? Does he not realize that you would traverse this floor even if it was covered in shards of broken pottery, if it meant eliminating the distance between you?   

The bathroom tiles are cold against your hands and knees. However, it is not far to crawl; and the bounty promised at the end of this journey is incalculably desirable.

“Eyes on me,” orders the Duke. You triumph to hear the rawness in his voice.

You nearly buckle and fall when you see the raw desire expressed in Michael’s glacier coloured eyes.

“You are the absolute, neediest little slut I have ever known,” he breathes.

You frown. A pulse of jealousy rises in your chest at the thought of how many ‘needy little sluts’ Michael has known. You know that you are hardly the first ‘receiver general’ he has dallied with (lord knows how many you have greeted personally, besides Isabella Darwood). Coco once revealed to you her suspicion that ‘Lord Langdon was once a titleholder in a very famous ‘buttocking shop’ in France’. But you need not be reminded of the probable seraglio of society widows, courtesans, and dancers that is Michael’s past. At least, NOT AT A TIME LIKE THIS.  

How unfortunate that your love for THIS man should be so consuming demanding. There is not a single worldly claim you can make on Michael Langdon. You will never be his mistress. You will never be his ANYTHING, not once the last of your three nights is over.

You try not to think of this as his avid gaze rakes your wobbling breasts. Now is for happy thoughts.

You reach Michael’s feet and sit up on your knees like a lap dog awaiting a reward. From this vantage point, his cock is terrifyingly prominent. You look away, cheeks burning with realization of what the sight of you must be, sodden from the bath, a stargazer on a winter night, literally begging for Michael’s cock…

He tilts your chin toward him. “You are such a filthy girl…” he murmurs. In the flickering candlelight, is so beautiful that he makes all else but him seem as masses of shadow. “I took pains to wash you, chit,” he says with a tut. “And here you are, polluting my floor with your dripping cunt…”

Because you only have three nights left in which to live as you desire, you surrender to the game. “I am sorry, Sir.”

Michael nods. “You should be.”

Following a dream-like impulse, you settle your palm on the mound of his knee, thrilling when he makes no move to counteract the contact. You stare at his cock and marvel at its ever having pierced you….

Michael seems to read your thoughts.

“Ask nicely,” he says in a low voice.

 You do not require a slab of Rosetta to know that it his mind ‘ask nicely’ translates to ‘beg’.

“Please Michael,” you say, sounding pitiable without trying. “Let me put my mouth on you.”

He considers.

“You are aware,” he says, in his most velvet tones, “that most women require the inducement of coin to perform such tricks?”

“I highly doubt that, Michael,” you say, feeling yourself smile even against ignominy.

“What would YOU know about it?”

Michael is literally sneering down his nose. But the anticipatory tremble you perceive in his body speaks more eloquently than he does and gives you courage.

“I know my own desires. And I doubt that I am anything TOO out of the ordinary…”

“Nonsense. You were a swooning virgin a day ago. Simply because I have made it my entertainment to trample over your virtue, does not mean that you possess the skill or the-”

Michael’s tirade is halted by a broad lick to the underside of his penis.

He shudders as if his soul were leaving the casing of his skin. You repeat the action, this time grasping the base with a firm hand and gliding your tongue to the tip. The salty taste there makes you light headed. Mouth watering, you tease, taste and sweep your tongue up and down his cock. Sliding you hand experimentally up, then down again. The saliva slick shaft twitches in response. You moan against the surging flesh, before enveloping him with your mouth and suckling greedily.

Michael’s fingers twine in your wet hair. He lets out a string of curse words.

‘This ought to teach him’, you think, twirling your tongue against the taut flesh at his frenulum. Let there be no more talk of delicate, lately deflowered dispositions. You are not the heroine of one of Mr. Richardson’s novels. This is not the tale of embattled purity consumed by the conquest of a seducer.

This is love.

If he still possessed a brain with which to think, everything about this situation would confound Michael; your desperate pursuit of his pleasure; the hitherto unknown heaviness in his ball sac, how dangerously close to spewing himself into the warm, perfect cave of your mouth he already is...

You have never done this before, clearly. But damn it. You are learning. There is a guileless surrender in your face. ‘The perfect, needy little swot,’ Michael thinks, ‘sucking my cock as though a grade were on offer...’

“Fuuuuuuuck,” Michael cries as your tongue swirls against his shaft, reverent as the deepest kiss. “That’s it…” he encourages. “What a naughty, cock mad girl you are…”

Knowing that he must not come yet, he grasps your shoulders and wrenches his cock away.

How will you ever live down the symphony of sounds that accompanies the motion: your whimper, coupled with a suction reminiscent of a hoof extricating itself from mud?

“You bore me with your pathetic attempts at fellating,” Michael says, though his breath is mangled.

‘Pathetic attempts’? You nearly snort. You may not have practice in the art, but you would swear that Michael rather enjoyed himself…

“Get up,” the Duke orders.

You do.

“Straddle me, slut.”

You do.

Michael’s cock, heavy in his lap, aligns with throbbing entrance of your quim. He is staring at the heavenly being astride him, beyond himself with desire. With one hand, he parts your labia. With the other, he applies exquisite pressure to the pearl above. You cannot help rocking against him, falling in tandem with his rapid breath, crying out when his prick enters you.

You take a moment to absorb this riveting new position. The muscles of your cunt squeeze and release experimentally. Michael looks pained. His eyes dart from your face to your breasts to the place where you are impaled. You move only a little and they roll back in his skull.

“FUCKKKKKK,” he hisses.

You DO fuck, straightening your back and finding a rhythm astride him, little caring for appearance or grace. Even as he reclines like a Sultan, the stroke of Michael’s fingers is upon you.

“That’s it…” he coaxes. “Let me see you spend all over my cock…”

It is half command, half entreaty. Michael drives deeper into you.

The scream of your orgasm flies up to echo amid the plaster moldings of the ceiling.

Michael’s arms wrap around you. The propulsive motion of his hips continues, until, at last, he can take no more. Groaning as if his bollocks are on fire, he slips from your body and lifts you from his lap.

You mewl over the loss of the perfect fullness.

“It must be this way,” Michael grumbles as he stands up and deposits you into the armchair. He wraps his hand around his cock, and stares, mesmerized, when yours joins it.

Together, you bring him off.

Ecstasy robbing Michael of self possession is an otherworldly thing to behold.

He spasms into your palm. Moments after the last thread of hot fluid has spurted, you bring it up to your lips to taste.

Michael is incinerated by that, reduced to embers by the sight of you lapping his excretions.

He has already died, he thinks to himself, and the third night is not nearly over.

……………..

Back at Snow Hall, Coco Vanderbilt is ravened with panic.

It has been three hours since she retired to her room, yawning from an evening’s worth of fending off male attention and hunting for clues as to Brimstone Society Activity, only to discover the light of her life, her Pomeranian Crumpet, GONE.

“She probably slipped out with one of the maids,” says Queenie mopping at Coco’s eyes with the least embroidered end of her hankerkercheif. She, Coco, Madison, Lady Goode and Lady Snow are seated in the blue drawing room, which has been made the base of search operations.

“BUT NONE OF THE MAIDS HAVE SEEN HER!” cries Coco. Her shoulders heave with the violence of sobs. “And we’ve” *sniff* “upturned the whole” *sniff* “house in looking for her!”

“If it slipped out into the garden,” says Lady Snow dispassionately, “it has probably been snatched up by a hawk by now. If it is so, you may rest assured, Ms. Vanderbilt, its demise was swift.”

The dowager is feeling prickly. Is this why she hosts parties, Lady Snow asks herself, to have her nightcap interrupted by a blousy excuse for an heiress wailing over the loss of vermin?

Coco looks at her with wide, watery eyes.

“I highly doubt that is what happened, Coco,” Madison rushes to say. “This is a vast estate, and there are a great many places Crumpet could be.”

Lady Snow wrinkles her nose. “Do not remind me,” she snips.

Coco sobs harder.

Madison glares at the dowager. “Must Coco be made to bear your castigation at a time like this? Can’t you see how distressed she is?”

Lady Snow blinks at this blonde scrap of young person who dares pitch her tone so defiantly at her. “Miss. Montgomery, I thank you to keep your nose out of the matter. If I were ‘castigating’ her, I would be telling Ms. Vanderbilt that I am not, as she believes, UNAWARE of the fact that her hellhound has been making a piss and defecation festival of her guest room!”

“CRUMPET HAS NERVOUS BOWELS!” cries Coco, before falling into a heap against Madison’s shoulder.

“Please, Myrtle,” Lady Goode entreats the older woman. 

“I never should have let your covey of harridans into my house, Delia,” huffs the dowager. “The next time I install new draperies, I shall keep their grandeur to myself!”

Just then, their tension riddled, female cloister is interrupted by the presence a tall, dark haired gentleman, attired in the height of fashion.

“LORD CHESTERTON!” Coco exclaims, leaping up so abruptly that she nearly slaps Queenie and Madison, “YOU FOUND HER!”

Lord Chesterton is carrying Crumpet as though she were a plump cheeked little baby. His smile is a flash of gleaming white as he gently scratches the tuft of fur beneath her chin. The puppy nuzzles his neck, then proceeds to lick him with a pert, wet tongue.

“CRUMPET, YOU STRUMPET!” Coco cries, crossing the room.

Coco is so overcome with relief to find her dog safe, that only PART of her registers the strange sensation that comes upon her at the sight of Chesterton holding her.

Coco and he have been in one another’s society almost since childhood. How has she never realized what a handsome man he is; how superlative his height, how kindly his chestnut coloured eyes?

Coco shakes her head. “Forgive her, Lord Chesterton! I swear, a Bordello must have been her finishing school!”

The little dog is entirely insensible to these criticisms, finding Lord Chesterton’s cravat too delicious to bother with ought else.

And Lord Chesterton, for his part, minds not the destruction of his (admittedly new and rather interesting) neckwear. Crumpet, with her eyes like two black, shining buttons, reminds him of his favorite childhood dog, Mutton.

“Crumpet wants to keep you, My Lord,” Miss Vanderbilt observes with a laugh.

To tell the truth, Chesterton would not entirely mind being ‘kept’, seeing as he is rather overcome by the girl before him.

Perhaps due to his chronic myopia- in aid of which, owing to his consummate dandy-ness, he simply REFUSES to wear spectacles- Chesterton doubts he has ever, prior to this dizzying proximity, truly BEHELD Miss Coco Vanderbilt.

How charming the bow of her lips!

How bewitching the lemony coils that fall from her coiffure!

What a TRUE hazel her eyes are!

Her figure is pert, rounded, womanly.

Her laughter is like the climax of an operetta, when the heroes are reunited with their women (who have spent a while posing as dairy maids, or locked up in an Ottoman harem), and swirl together on the stage, singing of their heart’s fullness.

It is all Chesterton can do to keep from kissing Miss Vanderbilt when he returns to her the bundle of dog in his arms and their fingers brush. He holds himself back, of course (what gentleman wouldn’t?), and silently wonders whether the sprig of flowers collected between her bosoms has fallen in accidentally, or been placed there by design?

“Take heed, Chesterton,” comes Lady Snow’s reed thin voice, “that creature is liable to piss all over her territory.”

And only Cordelia suspects that Myrtle was not referring to the dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do I even begin to entreat your forgiveness for how late I have been posting in this update (not to mention its relative brevity, and EXTREME BADNESS)?  
> It was a rather challenging week at work followed by a nasty virus followed by more work followed by a crippling fear THAT I COULD NEVER PRODUCE ANOTHER WORD!!!!  
> Thank you to all the lovely new friends, both here, and on Tumblr, who encouraged me to persevere and believe in myself and also not panic about taking millennia to update. Y’all know who you are and it is my deepest joy to know you!!  
> Thank you to anyone reading this. It is the honour of my life:D  
> In this chap, a reference is made to a very famous book by Samuel Richardson (Y/n calls him ‘Mr. Richardson) called ‘Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded’. Published in 1740, many scholars consider it the first true ‘English novel’. It has the plot of a fanfic: Pamela is hella poor and her rich employer is always thirsting after her and being all dubcon. She resists his advances and in the end she turns him from a rake into a dude that just wants to PRRRAAAAPOSE. It was such THEEEE best seller back in the day and it was pretty ruthlessly parodied (perhaps most hilariously in ‘An Apology for the Life of Mrs. Shamela Andrews’ by Henry Fielding. Har har ‘Shamela’).  
> ‘The Eye of Providence’ is that eye thingi with the triangle around it that gets touted around as a major masonic symbol and stuff. In writing this, I had to google ‘masonic triangle eye thingi’ lol. Ya. I am MAD RESEARCH.  
> Boudica was the KWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEN of the Celtic Iceni tribe and, in AD 60, held up an impressive resistance against the encroaching force of the Roman Empire. Though, in the end, she was defeated, she is still considered very much a folk hero/icon/OG bad bitch.  
> Also, soap really did come in transparent lil soap balls in the regency era. And it was super luxurious to have and very hard to make! Duke Michael and Y/n are such high rollers, usin’ that soap!  
> I have nothing more to say than THANK YOU SO MUCH YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW LUCKY I FEEEEL to anybody reading this. But also, apologies again for the long wait, and for the shitty thing you got at the end of it! Imma manage my time better, and overall try to BEEE better next one round.  
> Acres of love  
> xoxo  
> ps. Sorry about the FLUFF BOMB that was the last section with Coco+Chesterton and their healthy dating habits


	10. Chapter 10

“Make me a willow cabin at your gate,

And call upon my soul within the house;

Write loyal cantons of contemned love

And sing them loud even in the dead of night.”

 

― William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

……………………………………..

 

You want to stay awake. You do. You have come to think of daylight as the great annihilator. Sleeping would only hasten it progress.

But you have been lying for hours in Michael’s giant bed (which is very much like the bed that you imagine Henry VIII had, hung with burgundy draperies and knots of gold), and your eyelids cannot be reasoned with forever.

Michael, you have learned with an accompanying feeling that can only be described as the opposite of disappointment, sleeps nude. You wrap your body about his like climbing ivy. Half lost to dreams himself, he pulls you closer.

He made love to you on this bed after bringing you here and tossing you onto it. He spoke filth into your ear in the cold, calm way that undoes you. Then proceeded to fuck you as though he were exacting passionate vengeance. Michael held his endurance for a long time. By the time the impetus of your fifth orgasm smoldered within you, you were wailing, crying, staining the pillow with tears.

Two more nights. Out of all of eternity, there will be two more nights.

But the fact of their having happened in the first place will persist for eternity onwards! No one will know you love Michael. But no one knows the dark side of the moon, and ignorance does not erase its existence.

Tomorrow morning may not be like tonight, you tell yourself in warning.

Perhaps nothing ever again will be like tonight.

………………………………………………

Somewhere, amid noiseless tears, you fall asleep and the precious night dwindles.

……………………………………………………..

Michael’s left arm is numb. He has been watching you for three quarters of an hour. To move would risk puncturing your slumbering unawareness and is, therefore, unthinkable. So, he lies his side, wishing he was the puff of air that enters your body through those softly parted lips; and the light that gilds your cheek, and the dream that inhabits your skull.

His morning erection strains against the warmth of your thigh, pulsing its approval for the breast exposed where the cover has rolled down. Your nipple rises from soft flesh like the stigma of a flower. It takes all the effort of Michael’s being to restrain himself from closing his mouth over its succulence.

Waking up to you is like passing into the afterlife. Heaven and hell. Rapture. Torture. Everything at once.

A chorus of blackbirds through the windows causes you to stir. You reach your arms up and arch your back like a cat beneath a sunbeam, unwittingly revealing a second breast for Michael’s delectation.

How can he lie here and merely LOOK? 

The ‘bargain’.

The bargain, devil take it.

You are Michael’s for the appointed NIGHTs only. If he were to pin your arms over your head and eat your breasts until you were moaning, it would be contravening the agreement.

So, he rolls over to his other side.

Warblers join the chorus of blackbirds. Through a crack in the curtains, the sky is a brilliant blue. The morning is making good on its threats to become beautiful. Michael holds himself in perfect composure, even when he hears you yawn.

……………………………………….

Sunlight spreads through the bedroom like an injunction from a disapproving god; sweeping happiness from your life like dust over floorboards. Its only redeeming quality is that it illuminates the line of Michael’s back; the faint scatter of freckles you never realized were there. Of course, he has turned away from you, though you clung and clung and clung all night like a monkey.

You run a finger down the exposed notches of his spine, wrenching a shiver from him.

Awake, then?

Encouraged, you lean forward and press a kiss on the soft skin between his shoulder blades.

Instantly Michael pounces.

Before you can think, he is looming over you like a tiger who has lain in wait for provocation. Michael captures your wrists and pins them to the pillows. There is a shadow of a beard on his jaw that is darker than the hair on his head. His eyes in morning light are clear as rain, and full of some emotion that, weeks ago, you might have called it hatred. He bends to bite your neck, hard. You half suspect it to be in retaliation for some offense you committed in blindness of sleep.

You gasp. Nothing in life will ever compare to being at the mercy of Michael Langdon. You realize, in joy and terror, that you would deny him nothing. No limits exist. No freedom is barred. Captor. Jailer. Blackmailer. Defiler. Lover. In your heart, you belong to him, even if he intends to give you away.

You tilt your head up and offer your lips to be kissed.

Abruptly, Michael rolls off of you.

You turn to him in sleepy, blinking bewilderment.

Did you not feel the hot iron of his cock against your hip just now?

He does not look at you, only runs a hand through the golden disorder of his curls. All the muscles in his body appear taut with frustration.

“You are my whore for nights only, remember?”

You feel the words almost like a physical slap.

“If that is your wish, Michael. I must say that I am relieved that you are honouring our agreement,” you manage, hugging the covers to your chest. You would expire on the spot if knew how disappointed you are.

Michael’s mouth tightens. He pushes himself up off the bed. “I suppose you’ll want to fill the time before the dreaded hour with picnics and card games and whatever else idle chits like you prefer to do between beddings.”

You raise yourself to sit up.

“I am NOT idle,” you say tartly, electing to focus on the smallest wound dealt. “YOU are the one who is scandalized by thought of having to boil your own bloody water, LORD Langdon.”

Michael strides to the window, naked, immaculate. He tears the curtains open to allow in the assaulting brightness of the day.

“Bear in mind, chit,” he says so silkily that it makes the hairs on your nape stand to attention, “everything you say now, will be avenged at night.”

Your blood quickens in consideration of this.

“Dress yourself,” Michael orders. He saunters to the door that leads to his dressing room. “I imagine you’ll want breakfast,” he declares, as though the idea inconveniences him. “It will be served in the dining hall in a quarter hour. Do try to wear something that does not make me lament the existence of my eyes.”

………………….

A quarter hour later, you enjoy a breakfast of tea, scones and peach preserves in the outsized, crystal covered dining room of Langdon Manor. It strikes you as a strangely companionate thing to be occurring; daylight and the clatter of silverware; Michael inquiring as to your thoughts on the writings of Ruskin, planetary collisions and overlapping orbits (lord, but what an apocalyptic imagination he has). Being with him like this is unnervingly… easy.

“If I were to poison you, I would use Ruklasmas,” says Michael after a moment of thought. He leans back in his chair with menacing grace. “It can be found in only two places in the world: the garden here at Langdon Manor, and the coast of Patagonia. It used to grow in the Mediterranean. Mycenean assassins wiped the tips of their blades and arrows with oil from the bulb.”

You take a swig of tea. “Would you stab me? Or would I ingest it?”

“Ingestion, undoubtedly. You do not appear to have a very discriminating appetite by the way you are scarfing that scone down. Do you even DINE at the Vanderbilts, or do they keep you in a little cage and throw you scraps to fight over with the other poor relations?”

“You’d be safer to use Copperhead venom, Michael,” you tell him. “It is the more potent neurotoxin. I do not even need your precious Langdon Library to know that. I imagine that you would save yourself time, money and fertilizer.”

Michael grins. “As usual, pet, you miss the point entirely. Copperhead venom is painless, and as such, would hardly accommodate my purposes where YOU are concerned.” 

‘I enjoy him’, you think, as you watch the Duke of Langdon take a sip of his souchong. You adore him not only as a lover but as a friend. It seems odd to think of him as such. But you would prefer to pass your time with Michael over anyone. You enjoy his conversation. He is clever. He is challenging. He recognizes that the world you live in is a little bit deranged.

You have lived most of your life as a merry hostage to the needs and pursuits of others; your Papa took you out of school because he needed to visit a tower in the duchy of Holstein to view a comet; Coco wished you to share her room because she gets ‘cold and lonely’ in the night. Then there were the endless obligations of dinner attendance and balls and soirees and events designed to put Coco in the path of eligible men. As much as you love your friends and family, you came regard time alone as a most precious commodity.

Now you long for Michael to trespass upon it, to cover your solitude with his fingerprints.

You are contemplating the impossible notion of somehow remaining his ‘friend’ when Michael leans over the table and swipes his thumb over your chin, capturing a dab of jam. Your breath catches as he lifts the thumb to your mouth. His eyes do not leave your face as you dart your tongue over the tip. The Duke appears spellbound, following your lips and the line of your throat as you swallow. You wonder, little smugly it must be said, if he is recalling what your tongue did to him last night and smile at him with all of the innocence that is no longer yours.

Michael recovers himself and rushes to say something horrid.

“What a grubby little imp you are, Y/n. No breeding whatsoever. I should have supplied you with a trough. You would have felt more at home.”

Your smile is involuntary. Slowly, and despite effort on his part, Michael’s face breaks into its mirror. Genuine delight dances in his eyes like light in tourmaline. The heady feeling of being its cause fills every crack in your soul.

…………………………………….

It has been an age since Isabella Darwood last treated the gambling wastrels at the assembly rooms of Almacks to the event of her presence.

Sunday afternoon is when the matrons and ‘patronesses’ of the ton like to host dinners, so Isabella is safe from their despotism here (especially given the gathering currently happening at Lady Snow’s, which she did not see the point of remaining at once Michael left).

Because she suspected that the club would be pleasantly void of women, Isabella felt emboldened to wear her infamous red satin. There are rubies gleaming at her throat and across the valley of her busom, and pearls the size of ripe cherries dripping from her ears. They were a gift from Leo, of course. It always helps to wear such things when enforcing the continued validity of one’s stock price.

The gaming room is decorated in the French taste, with sumptuous streamers and an abundance of candelabras. It smells like cigars and brandy. The gentlemen generally laugh more loudly and vulgarly here than they do at balls. But there is tension in the air as well, a briny, sweating fear, as there always is when so many caper-heads gather to beat one another.

It both excites and disgusts Isabella to be privy to the gambling away of dynastic fortunes. Once upon a time, the ruinous stakes of dice and card games robbed her family of fortune and respectability. ‘Faro’, ‘Vigt-et-un’, ‘Hazard’, ‘Piquet’, and not any particular man, were the agents of her ruin.

Isabella casts her eyes about the room for Albion. The sap-head is in his cups, of course, still hoping to turn the tides of his piquet game against Lord Comber- which does not look promising seeing as how he is beginning to droop.

Why did life see fit to furnish Isabella with both a weak father AND a weak brother? One alone would be enough to sink a less formidable woman.

Lord Comber punches the air with his fist. Another win for him. Albion glares at the small statured man and demands another round. Another round. Always another round. Because fortune is always just around the bend…

Isabella sighs and returns her attention to the game of ‘Speculation’ she is engaged in with Lords Horton, Waldron and Eliot. By her calculations, her Queen is the current trump card. But Lord Horton enjoys winning, and Isabella wants him in her pocket, so she lets him.

It reminds her of the days she used to cards during rainy afternoons with Albion.

Beating her brother was embarrassingly easy but Isabella still relished it. Whenever she sensed his patience wane, she let him win a round so that he would want to keep playing. The sharper Albion’s little surge of confidence, the sweeter his inevitable downfall. Beneath her veil of gracious, feminine indifference, Isabella sizzled with every victory. But one had to be careful, their parents possessed every possible prejudice in favor of their son, and Albion developed a mean temper.

That is one thing Isabella has in common with her former lover Michael Langdon: they both played a long game against brutish men. They learned to be cunning. They learned to eat their pain. They waited and waited for Leo Langdon to die.

Now, Michael has reaped his winnings.

And what of Isabella?

Is she to lose the pot to a trembling little flower like YOU?

The conjuration of Leo’s diary caught her off guard. Isabella is still considering her options. She could stay in London and perpetuate the idea that she is Michael’s mistress, until such a time as it real. She could pick a husband from the lot of Dukes and parliamentarians and rise in the ranks of respectability. She could leave London altogether. Or buy a villa in Tuscany or go to Venice. The Dodge was a personal friend of Leo’s, and didn’t he find her charming that summer they met?

“I am afraid this round finds you as unlucky as you are beautiful, Lady Darwood” says Lord Horton collecting his chips. The waddle hanging from his neck shakes a bit as he chuckles.

“Indeed?” says Isabella. She shrugs and graces Horton with her practiced, light-as-air laugh. “Victory deserts me once again. Maybe if you stick by my side, some of your luck will rub off, hmm?”

“As loathe as I am to decline such a tempting offer, I fear Lady Horton will have me quartered if I do not report home for dinner. A certain gentleman is to call you see, and she is convinced that he will offer for our Portia.”

Isabella bites back a scoff. She had idea that Viscount Alderton, the ‘certain gentleman’ in question, has grown poor enough to suffer marrying Horton’s pudding-faced daughter.

O the indignity of it all…

“Till the next time then, Lord Horton,” she says, smiling and offering her gloved hand to be kissed.

Lord Horton rushes to oblige.

All goes according to expectation until… something horrendous happens.

“Of course, there is still the matter of your payment in our wager, Lady Darwood. I believe it is fifty pounds,” the flopping old man has the temerity to say.

Isabella feels herself turn the colour of flour.

No man, in the history of her card playing, excepting her brother, has ever asked to be paid up his winnings.

It is ungentlemanly.

It would not be asked of any ‘respectable’ Lady.

And it alerts Isabella to the shocking, yet incontestable fact that she is not desired by this man, that she is not alluring enough to bar such pettiness.

‘Do these pea-geese think I let them win so that I can part with my fortune?” she wonders to herself. ‘Do they think I laugh at their inanities and fawn over their tales of rifles and race horses FOR MY HEALTH?’ 

“I will mail you the money, Sir,” Isabella declares icily.

Lord Horton looks undone by her sudden change in demeanor, and she is glad of it.

He rushes to abort the request, but Isabella silences him.

“No, not at all my dear Lord Horton,” she tells him. “It is trifling sum, but I understand completely. You are going to need a rather large dowry for that charming daughter of yours. We all know that Viscount Alderton has more debts than a Snoozing Ken has venereal warts.” 

Waldron and Eliot snigger at Horton’s expense.

This is not the way ‘ladies’ talk, Isabella knows. She has shocked Horton. But then, he never really considered her a ‘lady’ at all did he?

This sort of behaviour would NEVER have brooked while Leo was alive.

They would all be treating her like fucking Cleopatra if Leo were alive.

Such was the vicarious power held by the mistress of the leader of the Brimstone Society. 

“If you’ll excuse me, Gentleman,” she says, rising from the table.

Isabella is fully aware of the many eyes that follow her as she crosses the room. Such it has always been. Desire has accreted to her since the time she was too young to understand its implications. She fascinates people without doing anything. Her hair is more radiant than gold. Her skin is pale and soft as magnolia petals. She is shaped like someone poised over a half shell amid whirls of sea foam. No one has ever looked at Isabella with objectivity, save perhaps Michael Langdon. This type of beauty deludes people. But it has never deluded him, perhaps because he is as amply supplied with it as she is.

Lord Comber rises and dips his head to Isabella’s pleasantries when she arrives at his and Albion’s table. Her brother, meanwhile, sits there like a sack of potatoes.

“Has Lord Comber been besting you all day?” Isabella asks lightly.

“The day is still in its infancy,” growls Albion.

“The day is about to suffer a bout of the pox and die in its crib,” she says, taking the glass from her brother’s hand and setting it on the table.

Isabella feels her spirit curdle just looking at him. Viscount Albion bears the sheen, colour and melting disproportion of a tallow candle. His lips are purple with wine, his waistcoat, rumpled. 

“I intend to keep playing,” he tells his sister gruffly. “Go sit with the other wenches…”

‘There are no other wenches here, you cabbage-head,’ Isabella would say, were it not for the presence of Lord Comber.

“I am suffering a head ache, dear brother.”

The fragile lilt in her voice makes grizzled old Comber stand to attention. “Lady Darwood,” he says, “please allow me to send for my barouche to deliver you home.”

“I thank you for your curtesy, my Lord. But my brother and I are due for dinner at our Aunt’s house.”

‘Fake aunts seem to be the order of the day’ Isabella thinks to herself, recalling your unconvincing reason for abandoning Lady Snow’s weekend party yesterday.

“Come Albion.”

Reluctantly, and with his verticality somewhat compromised, the Viscount obeys.

…………….

“You are a very simple fellow, Albion Darwood,” Isabella tells her brother once they are enclosed in the interior in his hired coach. “You let Comber con you out of that last card, you know.”

“My luck was about to turn,” Albion grumbles.

“You always say that, and I always have to bail you out.”

“Is that such a hardship?” snarls Albion, letting his heavy, ginger head fall against the window. “All you need to do is show up and wave around your apple dumplings and the debts are waived. Woe to me for not having them sis, but at least they are good for SOMETHING.”

“About that, Albion…” Isabella says, frowning. She hates having to tell him anything. But the time has come to stick a needle in his soap bubble. “My plan to… reawaken the passions of the Duke of Langdon has… stalled somewhat.”

“Why do you say that?” asks Albion, perking up like someone has doused him with cold water.

“The men in there no longer think me to be Michael’s mistress.”

Horton’s treatment of Isabella tonight is, she knows, the death knell. Because she has lost the affections of a powerful man, her value, in the estimation of ALL powerful men has fallen.

Desire functions on the principle of mimesis. Imitation. Conformity. This Isabella has always known.

She is, in a word, finished. No one in the ton will put on a pedestal that which has been discarded.

And she can do nothing to take YOU off the chessboard because Michael has proof, in the form of Leo’s diary, of every scandalous indiscretion she committed in the past ten years.

All that is left to do is leave the country and wait it out. Likely, Michael will tire of you eventually. And when she hears whispers of this, Isabella will return.

Or not.

Perhaps by then, all men will think her a cadaver.

“You are going to have to stop frittering away your fortune, Albion,” she informs her brother. “Seeing as you do not look to become Langdon’s brother in law any time soon.”

Albion’s mouth opens and closes like that of a fish. He utters some outraged sounds.

“WHAT’S THIS!?” he demands, filling the coach with the acrid smell of liquor breath. “YOU ARE GIVING UP!?”

Isabella holds herself tall. “There is nothing to be done, Albion. She has won. That little bluestocking, Y/n  holds him for the time being.”

“This is bollocks, sis. Bollocks! There are a million things we could do take her out of the game! How many little virgins have we ruined together, hmmm? Too many to count! You said yourself that if you needed my services you would-”

Isabella levels her brother with a grave look. “This. Is. Different. You keep your shriveled little pinkie in your pants, Albion. This girl is not to be trifled with. Y/n has Langdon’s protection. If any harm should come to her, or her precious little reputation, he would peel you. All the forces of the Brimstone Society would be utilized in vengeance. Believe that.”

“So, what do we do then?”

“Nothing. For now.”

“NOTHING?”

“Michael Langdon is not going to be satisfied by her forever. My time will come. We just have to wait.”

“I have debts, Sis… And I have a style of life to which I have grown quite accustomed.”

Isabella stares at him, almost in disbelief. “You mangy parasite…” she breathes. “You greedy paper-skull!”

She strikes her brother’s face with a gloved hand.

Albion captures her arm and twists it.

“Watch yourself, sister. As you know, I experience no compunction in killing whores.”

Isabella wiggles the arm in his grasp. “How DARE you speak to me like that? All you have ever had you’ve gotten off my back!”

“All you have ever had, you’ve earned ON your back, what does that make you?”

Hatred engulfs Isabella like a tumbling river.

‘I will kill him one day,’ she thinks. And this alone makes her feel better.

“Let me go,” she shouts, jerking her arm from him.

Tapping the top of the coach with her fan, Isabella signals the driver to stop.

Albion Darwood watches his sister click and clatter away down King St, the crimson of her gown refusing to let her disappear into the maelstrom of people, limestone and marble.

It is not regret he feels, precisely, but a consuming rage, on both his own and his ungrateful sister’s behalf.

How dare some upstart blue stocking mutilate Albion Derwood’s prospects of becoming number two at the Brimstone Society? Perhaps he ought to mutilate the bluestocking!

What if he should dispose of you a way that looked like an accident?

If it looked like an accident… Michael would not know it was Albion.

And then, with you gone, Isabella could resume her rightful place as consort.

And Albion his rightful place in the King’s circle.

They could bring back sacrifices. They could make revels great again. It would be glorious. A new era for the Brimstone Society.

People do not compliment Albion enough on his intelligence, he thinks. It is clearly an oversight brought on by his incredible brute strength. He tolerates it. Still, it would be nice to have one’s brilliance recognized every once in a while. Especially by one’s tyrannical sister…

……………………………………

A little after dinner hour, you are walking with Michael through an alcove of trellises painted ‘invisible green’, and bursting with riots of roses and peonies.

“Simon Marius observed the Jovian moons only one day after Galileo,” you are telling him.

“Coincidences are the evillest thing of all, aren’t they, pet?” Michael says.

“He got to name them at least: Ganymede, Calisto, Io and Europa.”

Michael grimaces. “Jupiter and his victims stuck with him forever.”

You wonder at the Duke’s audacity. “It is in poor taste for you to remark on poor taste,” you say.

“Be that as it may, no one is naming planets after me.”

Michael is apparelled all in in black with maroon linings on his cuffed sleeves. The crawling vines cast a greenish light upon him. He is the handsomest hypocrite you have ever seen.

“It is just as well,” you say teasingly. “It would be well nigh impossible to find a planet big enough to suit your ego.”

Lagoon pale eyes narrow. “Not as impossible as finding one big enough to match your appetite for my cock; or, it would appear, your punishment.”

Ignoring the pulse of your quim, you look ahead to an ensuing corridor of trellises. “Why would anyone name a planet after that, Michael?”

You are not going to rise to this particular bait. Dissipated you may be, this is still a country estate and Michael has not, as of yet at least, converted its grounds to a nugging house.  

“Have you ever seen Jupiter and its moons?” Michael inquires.

“Once. My Father had a friend in Vienna who had an assortment of powerful telescopes. I looked through the eye piece and saw a few pinpricks of light, barely perceptible, but there. And I understood them to be entire worlds.”

You try to keep the giddiness out of your voice.

“It excited you very much to see,” Michael says, almost as though he is feeling competitive with the celestial bodies.

“Yes,” you agree. “And, at the same time, any vestige of self-importance I ever had as a human being vanished.”

“Which I am sure was a pitiful amount to begin with…” Michael says dispassionately. “Only a fool allows the heavens to belittle them, pet.”

There is no preventing the trill of laughter that bursts from your chest. 

“Then I must be the most unrepentant fool.”

Michael frowns.

“I strikes me,” he says after a moment, “that you suffered a rather unorthodox upbringing.”

“I would not say ‘suffered’ but, yes, I suppose so, relative to others of my station.”

You are wary of Michael bringing up this subject. He has, on occasions past, mocked your father and everything that made up the beautiful, safe, erudite cloister of your former life.

“Your father dragged you around with him while he played the ‘gentleman astronomer’, did he not?”

“I did accompany him during excursions relating to his work, if that is what you mean.”

“I saw your father speak once, if you recall. It struck me not that he was doing ‘his work’ but rather, tending to an obsession, one that functioned rather like an addiction to eating opium, demanding the service of all else in his life.” The light in Michael’s eyes is gone, shuttered as abruptly it came. “He left you in a precarious position, Y/n. One has to be able to AFFORD to conduct one’s self as an eccentric. It is an indulgence, an unforgivable one given the fact that he had a daughter.”

“My father gave me all he had,” you say defensively. “He was kind and gentle and-”

“I do not doubt it,” Michael says a touch softer. “But the fact remains: your Father knew that you would have to make your way through this cursed world without prospects or fortune. The least he could have done was not mire you with his own reputation.”

Michael is not the first person to lay these particular charges at your Papa’s dead feet. 

“No one is perfect, Michael. Even those whose lives have been furnished with circumstances most conducive for doing ‘right’ falter.”

“It would appear,” says the Duke with a smile that makes your backbone ripple like the surface of a lake, “that your Father’s true legacy to you was an insufferable penchant for know-it-all-ism…”

“It is far from the worst legacy that a father could burden a child with, wouldn’t you agree?”

Michael’s eyes and teeth glint like a dagger’s tip.

“I wonder…” he says, “if you could you be referring to MY father’s legacy?”

The air teems with fragrance. At the end of the flower tunnel, there is sunshine. You nod, not looking at Michael.

“My Father died and left me his entire Kingdom,” says the Duke. “I am the most powerful man in a realm that stretches well beyond the shores of England. I can have anything I want. I can break anyone I want. There is not a soul alive that I might not influence. I could eat you, if I wanted. Tear the flesh from your bones with my teeth, and no one, not even your brood of avenging petticoats could stop me.”

“And yet, the time that is eating me alive, will also eat you,” you say. “Though you are powerful, and I am not, we shall both be covered by the same dust in the end, Michael.”

Michael is struck dumb by this image; of falling with you from the tree of life like fruit that has grown too heavy. He would not mind rotting if it was beside you. Better to be consumed by worms than be without.

And you say you have no power….

“What a predictably asinine thing to say,” Michael snips.

“Forgive me for suspecting that you have a complicated relationship with your Father’s legacy.” You are trying to sound disinterested, admiring the blue of the morning glory and the indigo of the clematis crawling up around you. 

Then, the trellises give way, and you are swallowed by brightness.

Emergence from the corridor finds you on hill overlooking a wide, unraveling landscape. Endless grass is dotted with islands of rock and wine-coloured heather. In the distance, the sea is visible over cliffs, rolling and gloomy. The bigness of it nearly knocks you back. Poets could scribble for a thousand years without doing it justice.

You stand for a few moments, having forgotten everything, feeling your heart swell with the horizon.

Michael watches you.

“You like the moors?” comes his voice beside you.

You nod.

“Then perhaps my father’s legacy has its boons after all.”

The meaning of the words clinks into your mind like a penny hitting the bottom of a rusty bucket. You whip your head round to look at him.

“You say that as though my feelings bear relevance to you.”

Michael’s brow darkens. “They don’t.”

Perhaps it is the immensity of the sea and sky filling you up, or the rising wind, but you hold your ground, even though you are feeling sensitive, illogical.

“Then why be with me now, in daylight?” you ask. “You have always made it clear that you suffer me in your bed ONLY.”

“I barely suffer you THERE either,” says Michael, “So do not flatter yourself.”

Pliny the Elder recommended imbibing ‘a grain of salt’ to lesson the effects of poison. Thus you have always taken Michael’s words. But now, despite the air being drenched with the salt, the poison is beginning to seep into your bloodstream.

“Then do me the favor of leaving me alone, Michael. Go plot to take over a trading company or kidnap the heir of some or other continental duchy. Plot your revels. Be evil. Do what you must. I will come to you at the appointed hour and you may use me any way you like.”

You turn to walk down the slope of hill, but Michael stops you with a hand on your shoulder.

“If only I COULD,” he says when you meet his eyes. Michael’s voice sounds a bit strangled from him, but his outward manner is composed.

Talking to him thus is like waiting outside a closed door, waiting, hoping, praying to be invited in.

“I do not understand you,” you say, trying not to sound shrill. “You never spoke a kind word to me! Not until the night we made love. And even then, you could not resist your barbs!”

“And were YOU such a paragon of good behaviour?” Michael counters.

You stare at him. “You are not serious…”

“I did not break into your home, you broke into mine, remember?”

“W-well, at least I was c-civil!”

“A yes,” says Michael crossing his arms over his chest, “‘civility: the last bastion of weakness and indifference.”

“Some would argue that it that greases the hinges of human relations,” you point out.

“Money and power do that too, and I have those in superfluity. I have never troubled myself with being inoffensive.”

“I suppose you deemed me beneath such considerations. Being that I am poor and without connections. Being that I am tolerated only- if not outright derided- by the sort of people you call your followers.”

The words emerge from your mouth before you can stop them. Shame streaks through you to think how wounded and self pitying you must sound.

“Say anything as idiotic as that again and I will have no recourse but to whip you,” says Michael with absolute authority.  

This, from the man who has -in his own words- ‘bewhored’ you.

“Sometimes, I think I may be mad,” you say defeatedly. “Other times, I am certain that is you.”

Michael absorbs your words in silence, turning his gaze to the sea. His brow creases with thought just as the wind arrives to tousle his wild beauty. You think: ‘I would do anything to own but an infinitesimal portion of his heart’, mad though he may be.

“I should not have spoken to you as I have,” says Michael thickly. “I should have bowed and kissed your hand instead of stepping on your toes the first time we met. I should not have insulted you. But something inside would not let me, Y/n. I did not understand why, but, you were different. I could not trade lies with you. I simply could not. I must have known, then…”

“Known what, Michael?” you ask breathlessly.

There are many truths that Michael could confess now:

‘I knew that we are one soul residing in two bodies.’

‘I knew that not having you would destroy my life.’

‘I knew that you would awaken in me shame for every awful thing I have ever done.’

‘I knew that you would make me long to be someone different but furnish me with no powers to remake myself.’

‘I knew that my life was born the moment you arrived.’

‘I knew that fucking you would ruin me forever.’

All these things, Michael could confess.

In the end he goes with: “I knew that you were afraid of me. I am the leader of the Brimstone Society. You believed me your enemy. Forgive me for not wishing to pretend otherwise.”

Michael is right. You did fear him. But with every moment, fascination dulled your fear. You now suspect that he had you in the palm of his hand even then, the night he stepped on your foot.

“I was not THAT afraid…” you say.

Michael smiles. It is a seductive, carnivorous smile that makes ribbons of your insides. “I am beginning to think that you lie just to have your naughty bottom spanked,” he purrs.  

Your lips part. Blood sings in your ears. You wonder: if you were to beseech the Duke of Langdon to tup you now, against this grass, until the skin of your arse is green, would that be so unforgivably harlot-ish?  

Likely.

“I was afraid in proper proportion,” you say with all the dignity you can scrape up. “Enough to ensure I had my wits about me.”

“Your wits abandoned you quickly though, didn’t they, pet?” 

“Are you referring to Coco and my decision to go to your revel?”

Michael steps closer. His minty breath ghosts your face. “You have to admit, that cork-brained idea led you directly into my hands.”

You steel yourself before saying, “And was that such a terrible fate?”

“It was a poor bargain, chit. You must that realize it now.”

“I am a woman, Michael. All of my life might be called ‘a poor bargain’, if one chooses to view it starkly enough.”

A flicker of pain alights Michael’s face at this.

“But THIS particular bargain has cost you a great deal.”

It is your turn to smile at him. “It cost me the only thing I ever had which my society deemed valuable. Now there are no rubies in the diadem of my ‘honour’.”

Michael swallows. “No rubies,” he agrees. “Now you have nothing.”

“No, Michael; now I am free.”

With no warning, he pulls you into his arms and kisses you. Michael’s grip is tight. The slide of his lips is soft and beseeching. His self control is like porcelain beset with countless lines of crazing where the glaze has suffered tension. Raising yourself to your toes, you kiss back, willing him to break. His fingers find your nape and pull you to him. Of what use is ‘honour’ and convention in the face being kissed like this?

Michael’s tongue touches yours and you think of an ouroboros.

You think of infinity; the concept of something unbound; uncountable; bigger than anything that a natural number could describe. Zeno of Elea believed infinity a paradox.

Now, because you love Michael, you can conceive of it. Your finite heart loves infinitely.

Perhaps Zeno was right.

“Y/n,” Michael practically growls when he ceases the kiss. “You have a third or maybe even second-rate scientific mind and I am sure you can spin out some sort of explication of how relative our concept of ‘night’ and ‘day’ are…”

You smile against cut of his jaw. “You mean, could the current hour be interpreted as ‘night’?”

Michael swipes his tongue against the tender skin behind your ear. “Well?”

“It is certainly night somewhere.”

And without further discourse, you feel yourself picked up like a bundle in Michael’s arms and carried in the direction of a willow tree at the top of the hill.

In your mind rises the phrase, uttered by a woman in love in a Shakespearean play: ‘make me a willow cabin at your gate.’ 

……………………………………….

“The Brimstone Society is meeting this coming Thursday at Darkholme Abbey,” Thomas Gallant tells the Coven members assembled in Snow Hall’s smallest and most out of the way drawing room. “I shall take a room at the Pearl Inn, and you ladies must impose upon Lady Snow’s ah… hospitality a while longer than originally planned.”

“Why can’t Crumpet and I go to the Inn with you?” Coco moans, feeding her pup a dollop of lemon custard from her finger. (She does not care if Lady Snow tosses her out. Crumpet’s nerves are shot, and she needs to be out of her room, among SOCIETY).

“It is OBVIOUS WHY you cannot,” says Madison, “unless you are interested in entering into a marriage of convenience with Mr. Gallant after you are seen, and it is whispered that you rode his St George in a country Inn...”

Mr. Gallant clears his throat. 

“It would be best for your reputation if you stayed here, Ms. Vanderbilt,” he tells his friend politely.

Coco scowls and stifles a yawn. Last night there was the whirlwind of losing and finding Crumpet, followed by Lord Chesterton bidding her good night and laying upon her hand the lightest, most devastating brush of lips that ere scorched woman. Then, she and her maid, Lucy, had some serious matters to discuss. As such, Coco hardly slept. 

She supposes that it is important now, her ‘reputation’. Funnily enough, it did not seem half so important before last night. But if she is to become ‘Lady Chesterton’ it would be best if no one said anything about her riding any St. Georges.

Or riding any Lord Sothertons…

Coco sighs. How inconvenient to be drooling after a man who will no doubt expect her to come to the marital bed in ignorance of all things rogering! To make matters worse, she has never been good at lying. Keeping the secret of your and her infiltration of that Brimstone Society meeting is taking up every last reserve of dishonest energy! She can spend no more!

And yet spend she must.

Coco is going to have to give a Sarah Siddons worthy performance.

She is going to make her lip wobble and her eyes big as saucers when Chesterton undoes his britches and pulls out his Arbor Vitae…

Then, when he puts it in, Coco will have to grimace.

She practiced the grimace for Lucy last night after the girls went to bed.

“Thas a good one, Miss!” her maid said. “Like tha! Pretend you’re bein’ mauled by a pineapple, Miss.”

But now that the grimace has been perfected, there is still the matter of the lower portion of the body.

“No’ all ladees bleed, Miss, their first time,” Lucy was kind enough to say. “You ought to say you rode ‘orses and sat in the saddle the way a man do.”

“Mama says riding that way is the surest way to incur Lordly disapproval,” said Coco.

“Poppycock,” said the maid. “The surest way to incur tha’ is to tup the footman Miss, and I don’t think you been doin’ tha.”

“What if we put a fruit up there, Lucy?” Coco cried, with a sudden stroke what she assumed to be raw, unadulterated genius.

“Wha sort of fruit, Miss?” 

“I don’t know. Perhaps a strawberry or a cherry would be best.”

“Mi Aunt Fanny did it with a slice of watermelon,” Lucy says. “Right nutter she were. And ‘er ‘usband, he just reached in and ATE it. Like it were dessert! He didn’t care. And who do suppose had to go in after em’ an’ clean up the fruit salad off the bed? Only mi mum…”

Coco listened intently. “I see. No watermelon.”

“Coco Vanderbilt are you even paying attention!?” asks Queenie, bringing Coco out of her virginity faking reverie.

“I know that look,” says Madison, pointing across the room. “We all saw you making eyes at Chesterton last night, Coco. But he has not proposed YET, so no need bring out the horse back riding stories…”

“You really can be a shrew, Madison Montgomery,” says Coco, feeling herself redden.

“Are we planning a wedding here, or a Brimstone mission?” asks Queenie.

“Easy for YOU to say, Lady FULLERTON!” shouts Coco.

“Girls, girls, please!” says Lady Cordelia. She is sitting with great poise at the head of the room.

“I still think I you should let one of us go to the meeting with Mr. Gallant,” Zoe Benson tells Lady Cordelia, ignoring the drama unfolding elsewhere in the room. “He will need back up.”

“No,” says Lady Cordelia strongly. “It is too dangerous for any of you.”

“It is dangerous for him too,” Zoe protests.

“I assure you, Ms. Benson, I will be fine,” says Mr. Gallant. “You all forget that I am a tanner’s son. I know how to fight. I know how to meet danger. I would only be too glad to have the chance to avenge my beloved John Henry if it ever came to violence.”

“I took a fencing lesson once!” cries Madison. “And I would make a very convincing ‘nun’.”

“The answer is NO,” says Cordelia with finality. “We are only a short carriage ride from the Abbey. If Mr. Gallant should fail to report to us by the dawn hour, we will know something has gone awry.”

Coco is feeling a mess of emotions upon hearing of this plan. “Um,” she says, after a slight cough. “H-how are we to make sure that Mr. Gallant blends in and is not discovered? I mean, what if, um, he does something to make himself conspicuous? How much do we really know about the secret language of a Brimstone revel?”

“I do not see why it would be so difficult,” says Gallant. “All my research into the organization has taught me that one simply shows up wearing a mask and ready to f-, ah, socialize.”

If there was ever a time to come clean about what Coco saw and did at the Brimstone Society revel, if there was ever a time to warn Mr. Gallant that something- SOMETHING AS YET UNKNOWN, be it a password or a secret hand gesture- led to you and her being discovered by Langdon, it is now.

To continue keeping her secret would put Mr. Gallant in danger.

Fuck.

Lady Cordelia is going to stab Coco with a shard from her famed collection of Sevres porcelain.

But there is no other way…

And besides, you are off visiting your ailing Aunt and will not be here to get mad at Coco for some time yet.

“Um, Aunt Cordelia, Mr. Gallant, there is something you should know about that happened at the last Brimstone Society Revel.”

…………………………………………………………………

At the top of the hill a great willow tree curves to form an enclosing dome and Michael is going to fuck you under it. Through slivers in the canopy the impressions of sky and sea are blurred.

Your quim is already slick when Michael throws off his jacket, lays it neatly on the ground, then lays you on top, making quick work of your skirts. 

“You’ll ruin my jacket,” he admonishes when his fingers travel down and find you gushing.

“Hippocrate,” you rasp arching yourself toward him as he rubs your quim with agonizingly prowess. “You’ve ruined my clothing before…”

“Anything I ever did to your sack cloth was a favor.” Michael says, and punctuates his words with two wet slaps applied to your pussy.

The feeling is exquisite.

You cry out, not expecting this sort of stinging congress to take place where, technically, there are no walls.

Michael sneers, watching you with pale, hooded eyes. He slaps you one more time for good measure before returning to his fingering.

“Fuckkkk,” you breathe.

Abruptly, Michael’s hand stops. He leans back on his haunches and removes it from your desire-plumpened flesh entirely. You raise yourself on your elbows but a firm palm presses you back into the earth.

“Tut tut,” murmurs Michael. “Defiling my picturesque property with your fishwife’s tongue… This is what I get for polluting the shades of Langdon Manor with the likes of you. You couldn’t even wait for the sun to go down before begging to be fucked.”

You practically keen when he runs a single, maddening finger tip down the seam of your pussy. You are so sensitive there that you buckle beneath him. Delay is pain.

“Invoking the rotation of the earth just to get my cock…” he says, shaking his head.

You surprise yourself by rolling your hips rather than your eyes and Michael groans in approval

“I’ll bet you could take cock for all of England, Y/n…”

You are not precisely sure what ‘taking cock for all of England’ would entail. Would it be all the cocks in England, or only Michael’s? Is it the QUALITY of the cock-receiving that would win you this distinction, or your ravenous eagerness for it? There are many questions.

But they are all silenced when Michael brings both of his thumbs down to open your cunt like ripened fruit.

“Look at this perfect pussy…” he says, voice raw with admiration.

With no warning, the Duke plunges in and begins to eat. Not gently. He sucks the little nub into his mouth and rolls it with his tongue, buried up to the nose. 

“Please don’t stop!” you beg.

Michael moans. There is nowhere you do not feel the vibration; your bones, your scalp, your nail beds resonate. The thought of stopping is pure folly.

In no time at all, you come, shouting Michael’s name to the branches with a trembling voice.

The willow wall sways. Michael watches you gather yourself with a slight, panting breath. And though you are his captive, you reach for him, reach for the buttons on his fine black trousers, and he does not stop you.

Michael’s cock springs out, prouder than a maypole. You close your fingers around it and wonder at its pulsing life.

You bend forward and press upon its leaking tip the lightest of kisses, startling when it jumps.

“Enough,” grates Michael.

You look up into his eyes and see that he has been quite undone by the little gesture.

He jerks his pants down and covers you with the partial weight of his body. He kisses your lips soundly as he pushes into you. You hum at the blissful fullness of his presence, at the familiar pleasure coiling and growing.

Michael fucks you with total abandon.

You clutch him, cunt sucking and tightening around his pistoning member. The orb of your worldly awareness consists of a single spot that Michael is hitting and hitting again, then expands its territory to encompass the fingers rubbing above.

You once read that Taoist witches use carvings of willow wood to convene with dead souls. For your part, you are trying to keep your soul fastened to yourself. But it wants to fly from you. It wants to be with him. Wants to be IN him, even as he drives into you.

Michael’s strokes are deep and hard and with every plunge you cling to him, willing him to stay imbedded forever.

“O my god, Michael…”

“That’s it,” he rasps. “Be a good girl cum on my cock, chit.”

You do. You splinter. Pieces of you drift toward the sea.

Michael pulls out. He is holding his shaft, hand moving up and down frantically. He is about to spend onto the ground, you know. If you were in a myth and Michael were some lascivious demigod, his spend some blend with mud and produce an offspring.

But you are a woman of science, and this is no myth.

You stop the motion of his wrist with your hand.

“Finish into my mouth,” you tell him. 

Michael Langdon stares at you; his astonishment warring with desire.

In an effort to crystallize your request, you climb up to your knees and open your mouth for him. You wait. Just like this.

Michael struggles to breathe.

Never has he seen a vision half as obscene or mesmerizing as this: his lover, his goddess, bent like a pilgrim on her knees, eyes closed as in prayer, mouth open for his seed.

His cock weeps. His heart gallops. It takes everything within him to rise, to touch his prick to your lips…

Michael comes instantly. The orgasm is blinding. He stumbles forward, sagging against tree bark. In thirty years of compromised existence, he has not heard a sound the like of what is torn from his chest then. Like an animal roar. Like a sob. A mutiny of the senses.

He looks down at the mess of white fluid he has made of your lips and tongue. Michael nearly faints to see your mouth close, to hear your grateful sigh at the taste of him, to see your throat bob to swallow.

His hands are still trembling as he draws up his trousers.

Michael drops to sit on the ground beside you, breathing ragged.

You are looking at him with glowing, happy eyes. And yet, Michael knows you will desert him. Two more nights and you will leave his life as you found it: a black tunnel, a void with no light. He does not know what to say. He does not know what will keep you here, close to him. Is it enough that he loves you? That he will love you until his death?

When Michael looks at you again there are tears streaking your face.

O god.

What has he done?

How could he have misinterpreted?

How could he have taken such a liberty?

When he touches his hand to your back, it only causes more tears to flow.

“F-forgive me, Y/n if I… I did not… I should not have-”

Your shoulders rack with a violent sob.

“Please,” Michael implores. “Please, my darling, tell me what I can do.”

‘DARLING’? says a voice in Michael’s head. ‘DARLING’?

Ignoring the voice, he soldiers on. “

“Tell me how I can make amends for-”

You turn your watery gaze to him, taking his hand in your own. You tremble, Michael realizes in terror.

“I love you,” you say. “I know that it is not proper. And I know that you would suffer yourself buried beneath an ice flow before you could ever feel the like for me... But I love you.”

Then, as if saying the words has burned you alive, you leap up, pull down your chaos of skirts, and run out of the tree into the blinding daylight.

…………………………………………….

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An overflow of gratitude to everybody still reading this silly old regency tale! Thank you so much for your mind blowing support, kindness, encouragement and positivity. It is such an honour to know ANY folks are reading. Your time and thoughts mean the world to me. Thank you so much. Honestly, I can’t even believe it:D  
> Sorry if this latest chap was lame/not particularly smutty! Yunno what it wasn’t lacking in, though? DUMB REFERENCES.  
> When Michael and Yn are going at it he says: ‘… This is what I get for polluting the shades of Langdon Manor with the likes of you.” This line is a nod to the perfectly snooty and nasty Lady Catherine de Bourgh from ‘Pride and Prejudice’ who asks Mr. Darcy: “Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?" when she suspects he is sweet on Lizzie Bennet.  
> Sarah Siddons, of 'Mrs. Siddons' was a big name actress in the olden days.  
> Zeno of Elea (430- 495 BC) was a pre-Socratic philosopher who is perhaps best known for coming up with a series of paradoxes that have tickled the brains of mathematicians, philosophers and high schoolers for a very long time.  
> The popular use of the phrase ‘taken with a grain of salt’ is derived from Pliny the Elder’s ‘Naturalis Historia’ (77 A.D.)  
> A nugging house= a brothel. A ‘snoozing ken’= also a brothel. Arbor Vitae= A peen  
> As she is being carried to the willow to get boned, Yn is wistfully thinking of the speech in Shakespeare’s ‘Twelfth Night’ when Olivia is being courted by Viola (dressed as her male alter ego Cesario) and asks ‘Cesario’ what he would do if he were courting his love. Viola/Cesario says, to paraphrase,: ‘gurl I’d build a willow cabin in front of their gate and park my ass there, cus my soul is in jail inside that fancy house’. Anyway it is is an absolutely gorgeous speech in the play, and there are all these overlapping meanings what with Viola being in love with Orsino and Orsino being in love with Olivia and Olivia being in love the Viola. Part of it is the opening quote of this chapter:D  
> Y/n sees Michael bout to wank onto the ground and thinks of Greek mythology, naturally. There are plenty of stories about Gods producing offspring this way.  
> Simon Marius did see Jupiter’s moons a day after Galileo but he did not publish his findings until some years later.  
> ‘Ruklasmas’ is a thing I made up. SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.  
> Galaxies of love to all of you. Hopefully I can get the next chapter up soon.  
> Thank you again for being the greatest!  
> xo


	11. Chapter 11

“Love, hatred, you have only to choose; they all sleep under the same roof; you can double your existence, caress with one hand and strike with the other.”

― Pierre Choderlos de Laclos, Les Liaisons dangereuses

………………………………………………..

Excerpts From the Diary of Leo Langdon:

…………………..

August 1st, 1785

Vivienne gave birth today.

It was a long, arduous and bloody affair, as befits a Duke of hell. She was not sturdy, my wife. Her womb became, exactly as I predicted some months ago, the pit of her death. Vivienne is a bit like God in a way: she kindly aided in the creation my devil, only to sink beneath an ocean of apathy and death.

Which is good. Because it is critical to my plans that Michael have no mother.

My son’s life must be, from the first, a universe of such scarce warmth, that he will cling like a capuchin to anything kind. And whatever gives kindness, whatever gives sympathy, or love, will be punished. 

Love will flee from him like a stag fleeing a hunter. And, in due course, the hunter will learn to eat something else.

…………………………………

January 4th, 1801

Most women are champagne; enjoy them quick, I always say, elsewise their bubbles are apt to disappear.

But this one is different. I have been watching her for an age.

All the gentlemen in the salons feed her pretty words and she, knowing how little they mean, elects to eat their intestines instead. Her name is Isabella Darwood. I believe I shall take her for mine.

…………………………………….

March 5th, 1803

My Isabella is a scourge upon her sex. Even the Matrons tremble.

Last Saturday she blackmailed a young society wife, Lady Zenobia Esterling, into participating in a Brimstone revel. The woman was once thought a paragon of virtue.  But O how the spirit of the evening did carry her away... Never have I witnessed a person more eager to be bathed in semen. By midnight, she was adorned as though by a hundred of strands of pearls. Needless to say, Isabella arranged to have the strings of her mask ‘unravel’ at just the precise moment when it would be most disgraceful.

She did this for amusement.

What a treasure I have found.

And yet what a dunce.

Isabella thinks of me as her protector, an old goat that she may lead by a chain, who just HAPPENS to be the wealthiest and most powerful man in the country.

I did not get where I am by following my cock.

In time, she will know it.

………………………………………..

July 19th, 1804

I am beginning to think that Michael has not been hurt enough.

My son is getting older. Soon, he will be twenty. I feel him slipping through my fingers like volcanic ash.

His face at the last revel confirmed what I most feared. Michael was the colour of a sapling. He looked pained, as though the sight of me eating a heart ripped out the chest of some street urchin did not ‘sit well’ with him. My manservant swore he heard the sound of Michael retching in the privy.

My heir. RETCHING after a good old-fashioned blood spectacle...

Diary, I am in quandary.

It seems a shame to leave Michael be. I have no legitimate issue but him. He is the ONE. He is the HEIR.

I am neither young nor spritely. I believe that soon my cock will require a hydraulic pulley system to operate itself.

But do I dare enter oblivion, leaving a man who still possesses a conscience in my place?

The future of the Brimstone Society is with Michael. Yet, despite all my efforts, he is unfinished.

Perhaps, my favorite fiend, Isabella, will help me finish him. These days, I think of her, and not Michael, as my greatest creation. I suppose, in this world, it is easier for a woman to earn the title of ‘monster’ than it is for a man. To be a monster, a woman must simply fall. She must simply fail to provide happiness.

My Isabella goes so much further than that.

……………………………

July 25th, 1804

They have met. Isabella says that they spoke all night. She has quite bewitched him.

When I think of my mistress filtered through Michael’s gaze, she reaches the height of beauty. When I think of how much HE longs to touch her, how willing HE is to burn for her, I am no longer bored. I could lay the universe at her little white toes.

………………………………

July 26th, 1804

She has fucked him.

How I rejoice to hear it!

Her cunt has never been more interesting; this evil cunt that spreads itself like a Venus fly trap and will spit my son out a skeleton.

But when I press for information something rather disconcerting happens.

Isabella blushes.

The whore of Babylon BLUSHES to talk of my son. Treacherous lass.

And yet, there is no entity I find greater pleasure in breaking than a woman who believes herself clever.

What glory to know I shall break them both.

…………………………………………

Aug. 24th, 1804

It is done.

Michael’s heart- the last of it- fell and shattered. And Isabella watched, pretending to be unmoved. It was satisfying on multiple fronts. Like seeing acid dissolve flesh, but thinking ‘ah, but the acid feels pain too’.

………………………………………

Sept. 5th, 1804

Michael still missing.

……………………………………….

Sept. 7th, 1804

No word of my son.

………………………………………

Sept. 16th, 1804

I have received word today that Michael is in Paris. They say he is staying in the household of Lady Miriam Meade, Vivienne’s erstwhile sister. Let him be pickled in weakness then, if he chooses it. Let him be governed by women.

END OF EXCERPTS

………………………………………

Michael rises from the ground like a man in a dream. The last of the day’s sunlight sharpens the moors. Beyond the bluffs, the sea shines metallically, like the thorax of an insect.

How can it be real? How can anything be real, when you love him?

Why do you love him?

He has shown you no decency; has treated you less like a human being than a mouthful of honey long denied. Every hour of your acquaintance, he has done you wrong.

Yet, you love him.

Michael stumbles over the hill and walks in the direction of his house. Nothing on the Langdon property seems as foul or as threatening as it did when he was a child. You have pulled the venom from every brook and root. Even the statues of lions and snakes stare benignly from the plinths. Michael passes the rotunda and the lake. Its rippling surface holds within it the rose petal colour of the sky. Fragrance teems from the apple orchard. Against the limestone walls of the house, robust vines of honeysuckle and moonflower wrestle upward. Nothing is as dangerous as it once seemed. Nothing is dangerous save for the possibility of your leaving him.

Your eyes were spilling tears when you told Michael you loved him. He would have ripped out his own entrails if doing so could induce those tears to stop flowing.

You love him.

It was no fantasy. If it was, you would not have run away after telling him.

You love him. Even though he has given you no reason to. And if you are mad enough for that, Michael wonders, might you be mad enough to forgive the sins of his past? If he spends every moment of his life making up for his former monstrosity, could you find it in that improbable heart of yours to love him still? Even if only a little?

With a rush of clarity, Michael realizes the truth of what his future is: he will live with you, or he will die.

He will shackle you to his bed.

He will dig a moat around his estate and fill it with a kraken.

He will hire an army of mercenaries to stand guard day and night.

He will summon every knife-toothed demon in hell.

An idea slithers through his mind: if you agree to marry him tonight, whatever discoveries are made in two days time will be moot. You will have no choice but to remain with him… Once you are Michael’s lawful wife, fie the Coven, and fie John Henry Goode...

There is not a registrar in Great Britain that would deny the head of the Brimstone Society a special license. If it has to be snatched from the Prince Regent himself, it WILL be done. It can be done in a matter of hours…

You would bear his name.

You would live under his protection.

The world would regard you as his.

But fuck all if Michael wouldn’t know better…

His gut tightens.

No.

To marry you under such conditions would be treachery, and to commit treachery against you would be to savage his own heart.

Pushing past the oaken doors of the entrance of the house, Michael has only one thought: to find you. When he does, he will bend at your feet like the crippled, desert flower before an incoming rain cloud. He will not ask for love. He will not ask forgiveness. He will beg only to be allowed to remain alive and curled there forever.

Or, barring that, he could do what he always does and act like an arse.

………………………………….

A chill follows you up the echoing steps as you climb.

You are in the great, swelling house, racing up the fifth of a series of stairs. How you got here is a bit of a mystery. The world went white when you confessed your love to Michael out there beneath the willow tree. Blood and sea roared in your ears. Your breath packed its suitcases and set sail for the continent with promises to write. Your sanity left without making any promises at all.

Though you occupy his house- and are in fact climbing toward what you guess will be some kind of attic situation- you have no intention of ever facing Michael Langdon again. After all you have endured, you were beginning to believe yourself immune to humiliation on the life-threatening scale. Evidently you were wrong.

At the top of the stairs there is a door, heavy and ebony. You turn the handle and push.

It is not, as you suspected, the gateway not of a moth-ridden attic, but something else entirely…

You find yourself inside an enormous, circular room. The walls are of tawny, unfinished stone. The last dregs of daylight pour in through an abundance windows and the great domed skylight that forms the ceiling. Five flights of stairs, it turns out, is high; through the windows, the landscape unfolds in panoramic detail. Grass, stone, and rouge-spots of heather roll in all directions toward the blue infinity of the sea. There is a table stacked with scrolls of maps- terrestrial and celestial- and a fine little cometarium of rosewood and silver. Across the way, there is a hearth, and a Persian rug flung haphazardly before it. The unquestionable focal of the room, however, is the vast telescope mounted in its centre. Your jaw drops to encounter it. You have never been in the presence of such a behemoth. The tube measures, by your estimation, twelve metres in length.

Like a moth summoned by torchlight, you rush toward it. You are pondering the mechanics of the mirrors inside when you hear the door open.

“You like it.”

It is an imperious, but irrefutable observation. You look up to see the Duke of Langdon smoldering in the doorway.

It is strange. Not long ago you were sitting on the grass, declaring your love to him, the taste of his seed lingering in the back of your throat. Now, a formal gale blows in the space between you. You cannot think of what to say. Likely, it is best to say nothing, and act as though nothing untoward has occurred.  

“The mirror is the largest in the world,” he says airily. “A year was spent simply thinning and polishing it.”

“How interesting,” you manage.

“The damnable mirror will demand frequent polishing for as long as the telescope is in use.”

“I see.”

Why is Michael telling you this? Is he hoping that you will be able to recommend an experienced lens grinder in London?

“You cannot afford to have it polished, chit,” the Duke continues in that forbidding manner that he has- like a wafer-thin telescope glass- honed to perfection. “I doubt that even the Vanderbilts, in all their moneyed beneficence, would indulge you in the housing and maintenance of this telescope.”

You blink. “W-why would the Vanderbilts keep this in their house?”

He sighs as though you are stomping on the last thread of his patience. “Because that is where you live, idiot, and this telescope is yours now.”

Bewilderment.

Incomprehension.

When continuously staring at Michael yields no explanation, you turn your attention to the reflective metalwork of the tube. You see your own face there, convex and comical in its confusion.

“Forgive me, but I do not know… I fail to imagine what you could mean.”

“One would think,” says Michael, “that someone with such salivating appreciation for this instrument would have a little more than cobwebs in her head.”

“Is it a parting gift?” you bring yourself to ask.

Michael’s face immediately drains of colour. “No.”

You run your fingers over the cold, iron tube. “Pardon me again, my Lord,” you say, reverting, as always in times of uncertainty, to his title, “Y-you said that this telescope- which, if I am not mistaken is the largest and most powerful ever built- is…”

“Yours?” Michael finishes, where you cannot.

You nod, cheeks burning.

“It used to belong to the Marquess of Snow,” Michael says, as though this helps.

“Lady Snow’s stepson?”

“Yes.”

You frown. You DO recall Lady Snow bemoaning the fact that “Lord Snow’s miscreant of a son from his first marriage” visited her home while she was taking the waters in Bath, and “absconded” with the famous telescope; that he claimed he had “lost it in a bet”, but “probably used it to peer into the windows of bawdy houses.”

“Michael, did you… intimidate Lord Snow into giving you his late father’s telescope?”

“I liberated it from his possession, yes” he says calmly.

You stare at him in disbelief. “Liberated it?”

“I intimated to Lord Snow that he may run the risk of serving as the bloody oblation at the next Brimstone Society Revel if he did not give me the telescope.”

“But why?”

Michael walks toward you, stopping just short of the telescope. “The night I met you in that hot, overcrowded room at the Vanderbilts,” he says, voice low and strangled with shame, “I rode to Lord Snow’s lodging in London. I demanded the telescope from him, then.”

“The night we met?”

Michael draws in a great gulpful of breath. “I met you. I stepped on you. Then, I proceeded to watch you all night like a stray, starving dog. It was the worst punishment I ever endured- up to that point.

“I listened,” he continues, “as you spoke to your friend Ms. Benson of the transit of Venus. You spoke of the tiny black dot that could be seen skittering across the surface of the sun for but a few hours in 1769. You glowed. You said that the phenomenon would not be observed again until the year 1874. How I wished that I could DRAG that miserable planet past the sun for your viewing pleasure...”

You tremble at his words.

Even though it is evident that doing so pains him, Michael continues. “Later, you spoke to your uncle about the telescope William Herschel was building with aid from the Prince Regent. You sent out sparks with your eyes, with your voice, with your limbs. Over a telescope! I felt, then, though I could not realize it, something which I had not felt before. In light of this new, strange feeling, I reviewed all that my life had been up until then. I concluded that it was darkness, pure and total. But it seemed that you liked telescopes. So, I did what I had to do.”

“Y-you made Lord Snow give you the telescope, on the night we met, b-because you knew I liked telescopes?”

Michael’s nostrils flare. “Clearly,” he replies, as though you are a sap-brain for not surmising the obvious.

There is silence. The scent of grass mingling with the evening sea drifts through the windows. Outside, the sky has turned the colour of wisteria. Evening hangs over the landscape like veil, as if to goad lovers to reckless confession.

“B-but why?” you ask.

“I needed to possess something that I knew you would love,” says Michael in a voice so laden with torment that it is all you can do to keep from running to him. “It was not a strictly rational impulse,” he admits. “In the beginning, when I thought I hated you, I told myself I had taken the telescope out of spite. But I knew. I knew, all along, that it was yours, and that that I too was yours. I hoped, like a mystic who rubs his hands over and over against his favored fetish object, to absorb some of its lovable properties… so that I might be…”

Here he stops short, and gathers himself.

“My life was orderly before you,” Michael says accusingly. “A bit evil, perhaps. But ORDERLY. Now I am chaos. I am a blaze that longs to burn and scorch everything in my wake that is not you. Don’t you see, you impossible chit? I knocked out the ceiling in this room to make room for your stupid telescope! I would steal anything. I would kill anyone. I would die for you. I would make a bargain with the devil if it made you happy. And worse still, I would champion all of your ridiculous, do-gooding causes, I would rewrite laws so that they run counter to my own interests, I would shelter the poor, I would give anonymous endowments to orphanages, I would DO GOOD. That is how madly I love you.”

“O, Michael…”

You cross the marble floor to him and capture his hands in yours. In a gesture of stupefied adoration, you bring his fingers, silly rings and all, up to your lips to kiss over and over again.

“You did not need to take the telescope, you fool,” you whisper through your sniffles.

“Well, if all else failed,” Michael says, “I was going to purchase the house across from the Vanderbilts and watch you undress from the window. I figured it might be useful in that at least.”

…………………………………………

“Let me see if I have this straight,” says Lady Cordelia Goode, her voice brittle and terrifying as she paces back and forth before a seated, spooked Coco Vanderbilt, “You went against my expressed wishes, posed as a pair of prostitutes, snuck into the Duke of Langdon’s house, mingled at a revel of the Brimstone Society, got yourselves DISCOVERED, were interrogated separately, were allowed to walk free and… you NEGLECTED. TO. TELL. ME. ABOUT. IT?”

“Yes, Aunt Cordelia.”

Coco knows that, strictly speaking, she did not ‘neglect’ anything. Her silence was less an oversight than a delinquency of conscience. You and she made a pact not to tell her aunt what a piping hot cauldron of bumble broth you willingly jumped into together. It seemed like a capitol idea at the time.

“Hell and damnation!” shouts Lady Cordelia.

Coco swallows. “Um, Aunt Cordelia, perhaps now would be a prudent time to tell you that my Father is a member.”

Lady Cordelia’s cornflower blue eyes widen. “MY OWN BROTHER is a member of the Brimstone Society and you did not see fit to tell me?”

“I would have told you…”

“WHEN?”

“Once everything was cleared up…”

“And how did you imagine ‘everything’ was going to be ‘cleared up’?” the leader of the Coven demands, hands poised at her hips. “When our Mr. Gallant went to the Revel and was quartered before a rabid audience?”

Coco looks to Mr. Gallant, then at Zoe, Madison and Queenie who seem to be attempting to capture flies. “Y/n and I did not see anything like that happening at the revel,” she assures her friends.

“What DID you see?” asks Madison.

“I told you! It was nothing untoward… Save for the great many people who were naked and copulating. It was all rather… enthusiastic. To be perfectly blunt, even the so called ‘nuns’ seemed to be having the time of their lives. And I would wager to say that they were not all prostitutes. Some of them I suspect-” here Coco lowers her voice- “were SOCIETY ladies. One woman had four people-”

“ENOUGH!” bellows Lady Cordelia. “Your point- if one can call it that- has been made.”

“All right,” says Madison, “but may I ask a valid question please?”

Lady Cordelia pins the debutante with a warning look.

“Thank you,” says Madison primly. She turns her attention to Coco and asks, very seriously, “Was the Duke of Langdon participating in this orgy? If so, I need you to, very slowly and with a breadth of detail reminiscent of Byron and Shelly at the height of their powers, paint a verbal picture for me.”

Thomas Gallant rolls his eyes. “Ms. Montgomery I would pick your tongue off of Lady Snow’s carpet if I were you; Ms. Vanderbilt’s dog has been leaving treasures there all afternoon…”

“Please do not talk about Crumpet like that in her presence, Mr. Gallant!” exclaims Coco, clutching her Pomeranian to her chest. “She needs her vanity preserved. I know that I have made a dreadful mistake in hiding a secret from you all, but she oughtn’t suffer for it.”

“It is all right, Coco, for goodness sake,” says Zoe sympathetically. “Just tell us what happened, very slowly, from the beginning.”

Taking a deep breath and a restorative swig of brandy from her glass, Coco begins to tell her tale again, taking special pains to enumerate her own genius in procuring Venetian masks and two of the finest examples of harlot fashion this side of St Giles. She tells them of her panic when she encountered her father writhing around with a naked woman like an aged satyr in a Pompeian fresco. She tells them of how the two of you got separated, and how she searched for you in every room but found only more tableaus of debauchery. She tells them of how Lady Mead, then wearing a mask, found her and led her upstairs to a study to calm her nerves. Lady Mead was kind, Coco says, if a bit alarmed by the presence of an *ahem* ‘virgin’ at a Brimstone Society Revel.

“And you say that Y/n was sequestered in another chamber while you spoke with Lady Mead?” says Cordelia.

“Yes,” answers Coco. “She was with the Duke of Langdon.”

If silences had aromas, this one would smell like a patch of earth still smoldering where a lightning bolt has rented it. It would taste of electricity.

“Ms. Y/n was with Langdon?” says Mr. Gallant, as if the question were not a question at all but a grim conclusion.

Coco nods. “But no harm came to her,” she assures the Coven.  

“The words ‘Duke of Langdon’ and ‘no harm’ go together like ‘Oliver Cromwell’ and ‘a drunken night with two trollops at a roadside inn’,” says Queenie dubiously.

“We went home together that very night,” insists Coco. “I assure you, Y/n was unscathed.”

“Did she tell you what she and the Duke talked about?” demands Lady Cordelia.

Coco frowns. Such a lot happened that night, between the masked revel, her fathers fall from moral authority, and Ms. Mead’s unusually strong brandy… It is difficult to remember exactly what you said, or what your demeanor was on the coach ride home.

“You and Y/n are closer than sisters,” says Cordelia unsentimentally. “Has she appeared altered since the night of the revel?”

“Altered?”

“The Duke of Langdon has a habit of looking at Y/n the way my late Uncle Albert was wont to look at a rump roast,” observes Zoe.

“For the life of me I cannot think what you are implying, Zoe,” says Coco.

“She is implying,” says Lady Cordelia, ominously, “that the Duke of Langdon is not the sort of man who would allow two members of a group whose interests run rival to his own walk out of his house without a scratch.”

“You and Ms. Y/n were at the Duke’s mercy, Ms. Vanderbilt. If anyone knew that you had attended the revel, your reputations would be in tatters,” says Gallant. “Surely he must has exacted some sort of… payment for his silence, whether it be in the form of information about the Coven or…”

“Or sex,” Madison supplies.

Another silence falls.

“What?” says Madison. “It is what we are ALL thinking. At least, those of us with a semblance of wit,” she adds eyeing Coco.

“Coco,” says Lady Cordelia, turning her inhospitable attention to her niece. “You spend nearly every waking hour with your cousin, you would KNOW, surely, if she was slipping out of the house, or acting suspiciously.”

“Of course,” says Coco, beginning to sound less convincing even to her own ears. “Y/n and I share a bed for goodness sake!” She pauses, then reconsiders. “Except when we stay with you in the country. And whilst here at Snow Hall…”

“So, in fact, you have not shared a bed- or a room for that matter- with Y/n for the past two weeks?”

Coco nods. Her thoughts whirl like the sparkling ‘snow’ inside of that marvelous sphere located in the Basilica of Mariazell she saw when she and Mama travelled to Austria. Would Coco KNOW if you surrendered your chastity to Lord Langdon? Wouldn’t lying with SUCH A MAN endow one with a permanent ‘just tumbled’ look? Surely… SURELY, Coco would have to KNOW.

But then again, Coco has told few people about her misbegotten night with Lord Sotherton last Spring. Why, even her own Mama- who is a very astute woman, in Coco’s opinion- believes her ignorant of the joys of rogering.

“Y/n has been in bedrooms of her own for the past two weeks…” she admits.

“Y/n could be feeding the Duke information regarding the Coven’s operations,” says Madison pointedly.

“Y/N WOULD NEVER BETRAY US,” exclaims Queenie.

“Why not?” asks Madison, sitting back in her seat. “I would certainly sell you harpies out for a chance to ride the Duke of Langdon’s matrimonial-peacemaker. Anyone who says they would not is a liar.”

“You will watch kindly keep your accusations to yourself, or you will remain silent,” says Lady Cordelia.

“As loathe as I am to remind everyone,” says Zoe with as much tact as she can manage, “Lord Langdon was under this very roof with Y/n before he had to leave for London, and she to Liverpool to attend to her Aunt Lavinia.”

At the invocation of ‘Aunt Lavinia’, the room grows eerily quiet.   

“Cordelia,” asks Gallant calmly, after he has taken a generous sip of wine. “Has anyone bothered to check if Y/n HAS an Aunt Lavinia?”

…………………………………….

You are silent for a time, lying against Michael on the rug in the astronomy room. Beside you, the hearth fire moans and crackles like a live thing. Michael, in an uncharacteristic act of self-reliance, lit it himself, not wishing to break your intimate spell by summoning a servant. The golden light is skittish upon his face, as though too overcome by his beauty to stand still. Even in the half darkness, you see he is in turmoil.

Patiently, you wait. And when you can wait no longer, you steel yourself and ask, “what troubles you, my love?” 

By the way his eyes glimmer, you would guess that Michael is momentarily arrested by the use of ‘my love’ in reference to himself.

“I do love you, Y/n,” he says. “But I gravely fear that it is beyond my ability to make you happy.”

This confession falls upon you like the weight of a mountain. “Michael I cannot begin to enumerate all the ways in which you are wrong!”

He places a warm palm over yours. “Hush chit. You shall make yourself sick with protesting that of which you can have no knowledge.”

“Why can I have ‘no knowledge’ of it?” you demand sounding, even to yourself, like a petulant child.

“You may be penniless, but you have been brought up in light and warmth.”

 You look down where your hands are joined and nod your understanding. “I know,” you say softly. “You were unhappy here, as a child.”

“Unhappiness is not the word that I would use,” says Michael. “Unhappiness is, almost always, the unfortunate secondary result of actions or failures. Rarely is it cultivated intentionally. Rarely is it the organizing principle of one’s upbringing.”

His words send a shiver down your spine.

“I was propagated in cruelty,” says Michael. “Cruelty was the air I breathed. It was the water I drank. It was the food I ate. My father hired a beautiful maid when I was three years old. Her name was Wynnie. She was a nineteen-year-old girl from Cardiff, very kind. She used to sing lullabies to me in Welsh. But she stopped eventually. Because every time my father saw her give me a hug, or utter a kind word, he would order the groundskeeper to give her a bloody lashing.

“Such it always was. For all tutors, cooks, laundry maids, nursemaids, butlers... Eventually, they either ignored me, or hated me. Except for the animals. The animals never learned. My father killed those himself.

“If I ever displayed ‘weakness’, which is the name Leopold gave to all behaviour which resembled love, kindness or decency, I was beaten.”

Hot, salty tracks stream down your cheeks. It is as though all pain ever suffered by Michael, past or future, is pain suffered by you, but multiplied by the order of hundred, like a single voice in an echoing cathedral.

Michael produces a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and gives it to you. Only when your tears subside, does he continue.

“The strategy worked, I’m afraid. By the time I left for boarding school, my soul was covered in barnacles. I will not regale you of the ways I tortured my peers at Hawthorne. Or the life I led thereafter. It is unforgivably weak of me, I know, but I would rather not to see the moment your love is revoked.”

“Do not be absurd, Michael,” you say vehemently. “It CANNOT be revoked.”

Michael’s mouth opens, then closes again. He gazes at you, as though some new idea of who you are is being sculpted from clay in his mind. “I have wronged you in so many ways,” he says. “I used you in the vilest fashion a human being can use another. And the worst part- hell help me- is that I enjoyed it. I would do it again. I would make a massacre of your virtue, simply for the pleasure of drinking from your cunt.”

You feel a humiliating coil of arousal in your belly upon hearing those words. “And I would let you, Michael, hell help me. Just as I did when I agreed to your five nights. That was not entirely altruism, you know. I harboured… feelings for you.”

Michael’s eyes are pale and full as a sky on the cusp of rain. “It does not matter,” he says, “I am ruined. Corrupted. Polluted.”

“No,” you say simply. “I do not accept that.”

“Just this week I had to blackmail the only other woman I ever fancied myself in love with.”

Well that shuts you up.

“B-blackmail how?” you ask in a trembling voice.

Dear god, you think, did he blackmail this other woman into bed?

As if reading your mind, Michael rushes to clarify. “I did it to protect you. I feared Isabella Darwood might threaten your reputation. I have a document in my possession that concerns her conduct during my Father’s tenure as leader of the Brimstone Society. It has scared her off. For good, I dearly hope.”

You let out an exhale of relief. “Of course,” you say a little thoughtlessly. “Lady Snow told me of your history with Lady Darwood…”

The Dowager’s words echo in your memory: ‘Isabella was Langdons lover when he was barely out of adolescence and she was ‘past her bloom’. I am of the mind that the love affair was a formative one for both parties.’ Lady Snow had also intimated her suspicion that Duke Leopold Langdon had purposefully arranged to have his mistress seduce his son.

Michael’s eyes sharpen like blades. “What do you know about it?”

“I know that you suffered a betrayal at the hands of Lady Darwood and your father,” you say. 

“Betrayal happens to most people at one point of life or another,” Michael says with a shrug you do not believe for a minute. “Perhaps it is an experience that binds us all in its mundanity.”

“No,” you disagree. “Not everyone. At least, not like this. You were betrayed over and over from the moment you were born, Michael. It is little wonder that you cannot bring yourself to trust.”

“Trust?”

You nod.

Michael lets out a snarling laugh. “Do you trust ME, chit?”

“Of course I do!” you reply. “And it is not merely the kind of trust that allows you to tie me up.”

Michael smiles genuinely at that hint of cheek.

“It is all right that you do not trust me yet,” you tell him with utmost confidence. “I am patient, Michael. I will wear you down eventually.”

Your promise does not have the intended effect. Michael looks even sadder than before. “What a miracle you are,” he whispers. “Your soul is the colour of angel’s wings, as light as a newborn. It is not for lack of imagination, but you could never understand.”

“It does not take much imagination to know what likely went on during Brimstone Society meetings in your father’s time. I know that you must have witnessed… atrocities, and maybe even-” here you betray yourself with a lilting hesitation- “maybe even participated in them. But you did not choose to be born to such things. Your father tried with all his might to make you as foul as himself. But he FAILED. He failed miserably. In the end, you walked away.”

If hope dwells in Michael for a moment, he squashes it quickly. “How little you know…”

“I know that the most compassionate people do not have souls ‘as light as newborns’. To know suffering and terror, to have suffered loss, to have done wrong, and risen from despair: THAT is what makes people capable of empathy and understanding for others.

“You are one of two men I have ever known who speaks of the plight of women, like he understands it. You helped pass a prison reform law that will save the lives of countless women and children who would be consigned to torment otherwise. I know what you are doing with the Brimstone Society. I am not a fool. You are attempting to change society but infiltrating the highest seat of power. It could work, you know. You could be the avenger and uplifter of the powerless; so much more so than even Lady Cordelia.”

“You speak to me of prisons…” says Michael in a haunted voice. “If only you knew... The things I do are evil, chit.”

“You are not evil because you spent a part of your youth wearing a mask, watching your father play butcher on the dais…”

“You think the mask is merely a costume?” asks Michael. “Do you imagine that the old revels were merely fucking and play acting?”

“No,” you say quietly. “But you were just as much your father’s victim as anyone else he tortured. Leopold is gone, now. The past is gone. All you need do is forgive yourself. And I promise you, there is less to forgive than you think.”

“I have killed.”

“And do you believe that I could love you less for that?” you ask, surprising yourself with the truth.

Michael looks lost. Shocked. Pained. “I-it is impossible…” he breathes.

“Nothing is impossible. The Coven taught me that.”

………………………………………..

“It is settled,” says Lady Cordelia, addressing an alarmed, vaguely rumpled looking Coven as the murk of twilight fills Lady Snow’s drawing room. “We are leaving for Langdon Manor tonight.”

Queenie looks alarmed. “A-are you sure that is a good notion, Lady Goode?” she asks, nervously fingering the strand of pearls at her throat. “What if Lord Langdon gets it into his head to kill us, or put us all in some dank dungeon where no one, not even our recent fiancées can find us?”

Madison beams. “Zounds! Do you think there is a dungeon?”

Cordelia frowns. “There is safety in numbers,” she reasons. “Our sisters are legion and I very much doubt that that even the Duke of Langdon would dare to murder ALL of us at once.”

Gallant nods. “One or two at a time, MAYBE.”

“I am so glad that we are finally going to roll up our petticoats and take some real action against the Brimstone Society,” says Zoe giddily.

“Slow your chariot, Benson,” says Queenie. “We are merely going there to inquire about a missing friend, who may or may not be engaging in a marathon of debauchery with the evillest man in Britain. We certainly are not going to jump to any conclusions, or cast any aspersions that could get us locked up by said evillest man, and make our fiancées think that we have abandoned them, but have no way of writing, and so they go on to take another bride, but then I show up, weeping and emaciated at the church on their wedding day, having bartered my freedom from a prison guard by granting him a single kiss-”

“YOU’RE the only one here with a fiancée,” Madison reminds her. “The rest of us can only ASPIRE to dreams of early widowhood.”

“Enough chirping!” cries Cordelia. “We must ready ourselves for battle.”

“…And ready ourselves for whatever wicked scene we might encounter upon arrival,” Madison whispers to Coco.

Coco swallows. When she thinks of the horrors and indignities you might be enduring at this very moment! For her part, she hopes that saving you from the lecherous clutches of the Duke of Langdon will atone somewhat for betraying your pact of secrecy.

…………………………………………

 “You are going to give that telescope back to the Marquess of Snow,” you inform Michael some minutes after your emotional talk.

“I will do no such thing.”

“It is his by birth right,” you reason.

“Nonsense,” he snarls. “That philandering half-wit has no interest whatsoever in astronomy. The telescope was gathering cobwebs. Besides,” he says, in a voice accustomed to commanding kings, “it is YOURS, chit, and it is rude to refuse gifts.”

“If it is mine then I choose to donate it to the Royal Astronomical Society’s public projects. That way, all people with an interest shall be able make use of it.”

Michael glares at you. “If you give your telescope to that…that assembly of sausages, you shall prove yourself even more of a chucklehead than I already think you. Do you suppose that you, or any other female with ‘an interest’ would not be summarily laughed off the premises?”

You sigh. Probably, Michael is right.

He traces a tickling lattice with his fingers against your forearm.  “It makes me want to burn the Astronomical Society Building down to a cinder to see you look so sad,” he says quietly.

You smile, bringing a hand to cup his face. Michael surprises you by turning and leaning into your palm in feline acceptance of the affection.

“To think I ever thought you a man,” you say with mock solemnity, “when it has been self-evident all along that you are a cat.”

Michael arches an eyebrow. “Perhaps the lethal, mauling sort of cat,” he allows, “a panther, or a tiger who prowls behind mangroves and pounces on villagers…” He leans forward to place a series of biting kisses along the side of your neck.

“No,” you say, knowing full well the game you are courting, “the sort of fluffy, amiable cat that my cousin Coco would coo over and cover in pink ribbons...”

Michael ceases his kisses. “Is that so?”

The interrogative is uttered so silkily against your skin that it seems to leave a scalding track there.

Fuck.

“Do you think me amiable, slut?”

You say nothing. You courted this, you wanted this, you needed this. And still, there is dread.

You gasp aloud when Michael takes a handful of your hair and tugs firmly. “You are disrespectful,” he whispers, tightening his grip. “And ungrateful.”

His invectives quicken your heartbeat and drench your quim. Yet at the same time, part of you wonders if you have truly displeased Michael, and how you may go about correcting this.

“You talk of giving my gift away,” the Duke says against the column of your throat. “Then you compare me to a fluffy, frivolous creature…” You feel teeth against your jugular and shiver. “Obviously, you are LOOKING to be punished, pet. Perhaps the best punishment would be to deny you anything.”

When Michael’s fingers abandon your hair, your head falls against his shoulder like that of a lifeless rag doll with no will its your own. He pulls away to stare into your face with eyes like palest part of a hurricane, his demeanor void of warmth.

Yes.

It is precisely this harshness that has become your opium.

Why?

What does it matter why?

“Perhaps the penultimate of our five nights together shall be a chaste one…” Michael purrs threateningly. “Would you be disappointed if I did not touch your pitiful quim, pet?”

“Of course I would be,” you admit.

 “Then what have you to say for yourself?”

“I am sorry…” you mutter.

“Of course you are,” Michael says with a scoff. “All that pathetic, slime-trailing creatures like you know how to be is ‘sorry’.”

He means none of it, you know. Yet all the same, the words scratch like glinting talons at your soul. The animal in you is confused. And it is the tension of this confusion that feeds arousal. Pleasure, pain, love, dominance; Michael is poised to give you everything that renders you weak with want.

“Get up,” he commands, practically thrusting you away from himself to stand.

You stumble back.

“Stand up straight,” he barks, rising from the floor and brushing his trousers as though to wipe himself of your filth. “Your posture is absolutely appalling.”

You draw your spine up to the darkening skylight overhead, straight as a stalk of wheat.

Michael circles you appraisingly. His facial expression suggests that he finds nothing whatsoever redeemable about your person.

“Spread your legs.”

You do. The air circling the skin above your garters is a kindly reminder that your quim, beneath layers of skirt and petticoat, is entirely bare.

“Show me your cunt,” he orders, sounding a little bored.

For the briefest of moments, you hesitate. It is a mistake.

“Did I stutter?” asks Michael. “Or have you neglected to clean the wax from your ears today?” You feel the solid heat of him behind you as his lips find your ear. “Lift up your skirt, you needy little slut, before I dangle you out of a window.”

The threat could almost make you laugh. Almost. You have a vision of Michael holding you from the tower by your ankles like a grotesque inversion of Rapunzel and her Prince.

But you do not laugh. Instead, you bend forward, capture the hem of your dress, and lift. 

Michael’s reaction is an audible groan that reverberates through the large stone room like distant thunder.

Air kisses your quim. Sighing with impatience, Michael snatches the fabric from your hands and tucks the front of it into your waist band, making, of your best cambric dress, a kind of cunt-baring curtain.

When he circles to face you, his manner is icy, but his breathing, slightly ragged, as though he has just run a vast distance through the moors.

With minimal effort, he nudges you backward until you are trapped between him and the wall space. The stone is unforgiving against your back. Michael’s eyes are more so.

A sure hand insinuates itself between your legs. The Duke does not utter a word, merely pushes two long, probing fingers into your quim. “I wonder,” he says thoughtfully, “if there is anything in this green earth I could do to you, that would NOT make you wet…” He lets out an evil laugh and begins to pump in and out as he thumbs the fleshly pearl above. You slump forward, opening and closing your fists against the fabric of his shirt.

Outside, the evening has thinned to blue smoke. You close your eyes. In the dark, as behind a mask, inhibition burns to ash. You writhe and rub yourself against his fingers, filling the air with a wet symphony.

“Yes, like that,” Michael’s desire-roughened voice goads. “Just like that, you filthy girl…”

The hand not on your quim drifts to your breast and stops to tease and pluck the bud of your nipple. You reach up and capture it. Instead of swatting you away, Michael allows you to entwine your fingers in his. Dizzy with love and gratitude, you raise your joined hands to your lips and kiss fervently. You swipe your tongue along Michael’s knuckles. His breath catches when you take the warm, broad pad of his index finger into your mouth and suck.

“Fuckkkkk,” he grates, even as the fingers in your pussy pump furiously. “I’ve never known anyone like you… So willing… So trusting… So perfect…”

Your free hand strives for his crotch. Before you can touch it, Michael delivers a hard, wet SLAP to your quim. You shout your pleasure/pain to the stars just visible through the skylight.

“None of that, chit,” Michael hisses, fingering you harder.

“P-please don’t stop…” you whimper.

“I have no intention of stopping.”

A frail aura of light from the window falls on Michael’s face. The crystal of his eyes is cloudy with erotic intent. A menacing smile curls the corners of his mouth.

Knowingly, skillfully, he coaxes ecstasy from your cunt. Sensation builds and builds, so powerful you think it might end you. There are tears running down your cheeks, and you would not even know they were there if Michael was not licking at them with a pointed tongue. In the end, it is this strange, intimate gesture that shatters you, that pulls you into the place where thinking stops and vision is a catastrophe of stars.

The strength of your climax collapses you into Michael’s waiting arms. 

A soft kiss on your forehead heralds the world’s return.

Michael’s hands fall to your bottom, and, with a graceful economy of motion, he scoops you up carries you to the long table with many maps.

In one swift stroke, Michael brushes everything from the surface. Parchment and wood clamor to the floor. You are too overcome by the passion of the moment to worry about the fate of that lovely cometarium you noticed earlier. Michael lowers you to rest against the table on your back with your feet dangling over the edge. He nudges your thighs apart. Your skirt is still tucked into your waistband, revealing a swollen, glistening quim to his marauding gaze.

Michael makes quick work of the buttons of his trousers and britches. His cock springs forth, surging and ready to the point of bursting. You are taken aback by how violently Michael’s hands are shaking when he lays them on your stomach. All of his muscles are rigid with the effort of self control. Gripping your waist, he wrenches you onto his length, letting out a raw cry.

“That’s it,” he says, “take it… You’re going take it whenever I want from now on, not just for five meagre nights…”

You moan in acquiescence of this plan.

Michael lays a harsh slap to the underside of your thigh, then brings one hand to thumb that magnificent spot you must learn the name of one of these days.

You reach down to cup his ball sack in retaliation, because you suspect this might be a good notion.

Michael’s eyes widen as his cock hits shudderingly deep.

“Do you know what I am going to do if you ever run from me again, swot? I am going to chase you to the ends of the earth. I am going to bring you back here and chain you up in my dungeon and fuck you and lick you anytime I want- WHICH WILL BE ALL THE FUCKING TIME!”

Your heart stutters in your chest to hear that.

Run away?

Leave Michael?

What kind of ranting madness is this?

“YES!” you cry, with all the burning rapture of a martyr, giving way to the onslaught of your second orgasm.

Michael feels you cum, feels the tightening aftershocks around his cock. He fights the pleasure with every bolt of his being. Because this must go on. This must not end. Because everything in his life that he has experienced with other women is trifling when compared to THIS.

This.

You.

Even when he is joined with you, body in body, bliss pivots wretchedly into longing. Even as Michael is having you, he mourns the incoming lack of you. If judgement had not been burned from his brain the moment he entered your cunt, he might ponder the grotesque asymmetry of such perfection allowing itself to be pawed by likes of him.

But fuck symmetry.

And fuck justice.

Michael cums harder than he ever has, pouring into your body, digging his nails into flesh.

Afterwards, he pulls you up gently by the hand and holds you to his sweat drenched skin.

For a long time, Michael clutches you, ghosting lips in the near darkness, over your forehead, your eyelids, your cheeks.

You are a thief, he thinks. You have stolen the sorrow and anger from his heart as though they were freshly laid eggs lying unguarded by a bird. Before you, he would have scorned love. He might have been content being powerful and feared. He might have reigned forever as Duke of Hell.

But Michael cannot live as before. Not ever again.

“Please marry me, chit,” he says against your shoulder. “I think I shall die otherwise.”

……………………………………………………………..

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello kind, beautiful, infinitely treasured readers! Thank you so much for continuing to read my story. It fills my everyday life with indescribable joy to know that you are out there! Thank you for sharing your thoughts, being so supportive, lifting my spirits, inspiring me, and making me snort-laugh on a regular basis. What a joy and pleasure to communicate through a03 and Tumblr alike. I feel so lucky that my weird little regency tale exists in the veritable ocean of brilliant writing in this fandom.  
> Ok so, I just wanted to get this out there, and I am probably missing a motherload of typos, for which I apologize! Next time, I will make this shit TIIIIIIIIIGHT. I am honestly not thrilled with how this chapter turned out, but I am viewing it as more of one of those ‘necessary’, ‘bridging’ chapters that will lead to more action and, hopefully, funner things to come.  
> The reason for the inclusion of Duke Leo’s Diary excerpts will factor more clearly into the story later. I am still debating whether or not their introduction in this chapter is a lil too clunky… but ya live, ya try, ya experiment stylistically haha.  
> If you are, as I am, a big fan of historical romance novels, you are no doubt familiar with the ‘special license’. Marriage by special license means that the Archbishop of Canterbury has granted you the freedom to marry at any time, and place you wish. Usually it is afforded to only the fanciest of fancy-pants.  
> A Cometarium was an old-timey device for demonstrating the movement of comets in an elliptical orbit. Folks in the regency were super into comets!  
> I based the dimensions and appearance of Yn’s telescope on William Herschel's 40-foot telescope which was constructed between 1785 and 1789 at Observatory House in Slough, England. Michael’s acquisition of the telescope was foreshadowed in chapter 6 when Myrtle complained about her dumb stepson taking it from under her nose.  
> The ‘transit of Venus’ refers to the event of Venus passing directly between the Sun and a bigger planet. This makes it visible as a tiny black dot against sun and is very, very cool sounding. The last transit occurred in 2012. It will occur again on the 10th or 11th of December in 2117.  
> I cheated a little on the timeline of the first ever Snow Globe, which was a bit later than when Coco would have seen in in that cathedral in Austria.  
> A ‘buttock broker’ brokers their butt, y’all! A 'matrimonial peace-maker'= a peen  
> I really tried hard to find out when Michael Langdon’s birthday is canonically (and by ‘tried really hard’, I mean I looked at the wiki and prolly it was there but I missed it and I am sorry).  
> If you are into scandalous, sexy historical shit, check out the book, play and multiple film adaptations of Pierre Choderlos de Laclos’ ‘Les Liaisons dangereuses’, or ‘Dangerous Liasons’. The movie ‘Cruel Intentions’ is a 90s au inspired by this French classic. And the 1988 film adaptation has Glenn Close, and the world’s sweetest, most precious and ageless angel, Keanu in it! The quote at the beginning of the chapter is from the book. Also, the detail of there existing a scandalous diary that has the potential to bring down an amoral aristocrat is pure LIASONS.  
> So much love. Thank you for giving me the greatest gift anyone can imagine!!!


	12. Chapter 12

………………………………………

“The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in times of great moral crisis, maintain their neutrality.”

― Dante Alighieri

……………………………………

In the dark of the observatory, Michael awaits your answer. It is a stunning proposal, to be sure. But the shock spreads through you slowly, like warmth brought on by drinking too much champagne.

His pulse is quick against your chest. How confounding, you think, that Michael Langdon’s continued existence should be dependent on something as banal as the pumping of a heart. You imagine breakable rivers of veins flowing in the arms that shelter you, and vessels in the lips that, light as moths wings, graze your temple, scraping where whiskers have grown.

 “Look at me,” the Duke commands.

You tilt your head up and meet eyes as wild and pale as grass shimmering in the moors.

When one has lived- that is to say, when one has tasted joy and its ashes mixed together like the bittersweet residue settling at the bottom of a teacup- one might flinch in the face of too much happiness. Its lasting preservation must, per law, yield to the inevitability of loss. Icarus fell back to earth like a burning meteorite. Sampati died wingless in the forest.

Michael harbours secrets. He does not trust you. He has done things that he believes would kill your love to reveal. He could cover your heart in the kind of wounds that never close. He could make it so that every corner of your world brims with his absence, and there is no peace for you anymore, no salve for your loneliness, not even in your quietest places, not even in stars or books…

And still, you agree to become his wife.

“Yes,” you say, voice trembling like a petal in rain. “I will marry you, Michael. It is my deepest wish.”

How could it be otherwise? How could you steel your heart against such a question? Against him?

Michael says nothing, only looks at you with such love that it almost makes you feel stingy by comparison. Then he lifts you from the table and carries you like a bundle of kindling. Between the throbbing juncture of your thighs the bulge of his cock is straining (again!). Descending the stairs, you can feel the hard bands of Michael’s body quaking with disbelief.

Around midnight, the nights blue-black polish shatters and gives way to a thunderstorm. The windows of the bedroom clammer. Lightning angles in every once in a while, covering your golden lover in silver.

There is an urgency- some indefinable terror- in the way Michael makes love to you then; as though you might evaporate before morning.  You lie caught between his gliding tongue and the bedsheets. Your body is painted into being in frantic succession; wet breasts, hip bones, navel, thighs. His mouth fastens on your quim as though it is a segment of orange.

 “I want to watch you come,” he says, voice sibilant against wet flesh, then sets to eating.

You fall back against the bed, soul flying, skeleton unglued. Firelight glimmers fitfully over the bed hangings where there is an embroidered pattern of flowers and snakes. The symbolism is vulgar and reductive. It puts you in mind of the first time Michael Langdon did THIS to you. Then, he bound your arms to the bed and made you take pleasure as though it were torture. Then, you were afraid. Now, lying here, spangled in sweat and heat, you are even MORE afraid. Silently, you beg life to let you keep this. You promise never to ask for anything else. Only him, only this. It is so much more than enough.

You come and Michael loses himself lapping at the apex of your release. The sound is obscene. But passion has left you an empty rind. Whatever decorum there once existed to offend is gone.

“You are crying, chit,” Michael observes when his head is next to yours on the pillow. “Have my skills depreciated so rapidly?”

“No,” you say, helpless against laughing.

“Then why are you blubbering during coitus? Don’t you know it might put a man off?”

You giggle and palm his raging erection. “Clearly you are not such a man…”

Michael regards you like a fox taking the measure of a rabbit, then sticks two fingers into your cunt. “Finally my little slut is catching on.”

You could spend a millennium puzzling over why the Duke’s vicious, mocking praise renders you insensible with arousal. But why waste good fucking time?

You inhale as Michael rolls and pinches the sensitive pearl of flesh above your slit as though it were a pea in oil. The more you whimper, the harder he squeezes. When he slaps your pussy, it hurts so beautifully you might cry.

“I run mad when you make such sounds,” he says thickly.

“I-is that why you are marrying me?” you manage, “because you revel as much in giving punishment as I do in absorbing it?” You mean no harm by the statement. Only after it has been uttered do you comprehend its deeper ramifications.

Michael’s fingers still inside you. “What did you say?”

You meet his eyes, it must be said, a little defiantly, “I can hardly be blamed for thinking of it. O-our outwardly opposite seeming perversions happen to be perfectly complimentary, and surely that makes it-”

“Makes it what?” demands Michael. His voice is low and ominous. You are humiliatingly aware of his beringed fingers continued immersion in your body as he looks at you with grim assessment.

“It makes sense, Michael...”

“Does it now?”

Michael jabs your cunt with his hand, and you reward him with a grimace. He smiles, thereby proving your point. 

“Do you suppose, chit,” he asks softly, leaning in to nuzzle the side of your cheek in a gesture of faux sympathy, “that you are the only woman in London who keens with longing to be whipped by me?”

You swallow.

You did not think of that, really.

“Answer me, slut.”

You shake your head. Then quickly add, “No.”

Placated a little, Michael begins to churn his fingers, deep and slow. “You exasperate me,” he pronounces.

“I am sorry.”

“As you should be. Promise that you will spare me such inane prattling from here on out, elsewise, marriage to you will be intolerable.”

Even though you are not strictly versed on what, to his mind, constitutes ‘inane prattling’, you do promise. The hand at your quim could wring heresy from the lips of angels.

“I will not lie and say that I am a good man,” says Michael, curling his fingers until pleasure seems to emanate from your body into the air and rival the thunder in potency. “Flogging you is by far one of my pettier crimes.”

“I l-loved it…” you breathe.

“I know you did,” he says with a conceited smirk. “Dirty, dirty girl… And don’t you worry a mite, I have a host of other… instruments that I have a mind to use on you, should you permit me.”

His fingers do something jagged and powerful then, and your orgasm takes its cue. Michael makes a conscious study of your face as it is happening, straining as he holds himself back from being wholly transported. When you come down, he simply continues his conversation, as though the calamity of your release was mere backdrop to his own smug voice.

“It is a good thing we have been building your character,” he says. “You are going to become the subject of envy and gossip when we wed. Half of the ton will regard you as the most enterprising young women ever to trick a Duke into marriage. The other half will know me to be a ravager of ill-behaved virgins. Only you and I will know the truth. 

“And, incidentally,” he adds, erotically calm, “you are right. Our desires ARE complimentary. It is my privilege to spank your ass raw, tie you to my bed, and absolve you of the need to do anything but feel; just as it is yours to beg for my cock.”

Even in your post-orgasmic haze, you have the wherewithal to roll your eyes at the latter statement.

“But make no mistake. I am not marrying you because we are the erotic analogue of ‘yin’ and ‘yang’. I am marrying you because I love you.” Michael sounds fed up, as though he is about to take you over his knee. Instead, he brings your palm to his lips with undisguised tenderness. You see worrisome grey-pink shadows beneath his eyes.

“I love you,” Michael says again, as quietly as if you are at a funeral. The three most potent words any language possesses. “There is no accounting for it. You are a bothersome, moralizing creature and you dress like a napkin that has been repeatedly belched into. But I love you and there is no help for it.”

With that, Michael takes you in his arms, impales you with his cock, and fucks.

For once, it does not take him long. For once, he makes no effort to drag out the exquisite agony. He takes you until your name is a mute scream in his throat, gripping your hips and pummeling.

Then, with a groan as frayed as old cloth, Michael spends and, for the second time in the course of hours, he does so inside of you.

The potential consequence of such an action should give you pause. But all you can think is: ‘who will care less or more if it is a hasty wedding?’

It is only later, in the darkness, as you attempt to sleep enclosed in warm arms and warmer loins, that misgivings come.

You love Michael like one would love a locked room whose wonderments one is permitted to visit exceedingly rarely, and whose contents one must leave always undisturbed. You love him like starlight loves the unseen pistil of a lotus flower floating in the night. 

Will he allow you to SEE him fully once you are his Duchess?

You live in hope, but when sleep comes, your dreams are full of monsters.

………………………………………………………

“Madison, will you kindly point that pistol some place that is not Mr. Gallant’s tackle?” says Zoe, wiggling between Coco and Mr. Gallant in the cramped, wind jostled coach.

“Do relax, Zoe. I am barely even a little drunk.”

When she reached the age of her majority, Madison Montgomery celebrated by sneaking into her grandfather’s armory and appropriating one of his ‘lesser’ pistols. The stock is thin and elegant in her hand, fashioned of the finest English walnut and rubbed by hand with oil. She imagines bursting into some or other of the Duke of Langdon’s private chambers, finding him in dishabille, and willing herself to pull the trigger anyway. She imagines the fulminate of mercury hitting the barrel, igniting gunpowder, filling the Duke’s handsome face with lead, and forever ending the possibility of bartering herself in exchange for your virtue. Pity, Madison thinks, with a sigh, that, of all his enemies, the Duke chose YOU to tup. She, at the very least, knows how to keep a secret.

“What if we get to Langdon Manor and find an empty house?” inquires Queenie, ignoring it when Madison accidentally-on-purpose elbows her.

“Once we have unturned every stone on the property,” says Lady Goode, with dangerous calm, “we shall turn our attention to the Duke’s residence in London.”

“But the state of the roads to London will be impossible,” says Zoe. “To be sure, we are lucky we have not been stuck in mud already.”

The hard rain that began to fall before they set out, became, in short order, a bad storm.

“We will find a posting inn if we are so unlucky, then set out for London when the roads clear,” says Lady Cordelia. “But pray it does not come to that. Every moment we delay, our friend sinks further into ruination. Lord knows what horrors the Duke may be inflicting upon Y/n as we speak.”

“Perhaps it is not so bad as that,” ventures Coco. “To be perfectly frank, I always suspected that Y/n harboured a bit of a-”

Zoe catches the girl’s eye and shakes her head prohibitively. Coco’s sentence dies in her mouth.

“I cannot believe it of Y/n that she would go to the Duke’s house of her own volition…” Queenie whispers. “The girl has never so much as tied her garter in public.”

“True,” allows Madison a great deal more loudly. “But the Duke of Langdon is swimming in more lard than Croesus the King. He is, in every way, the sort of man one stoops to trollop-hood for. We all know it. Let us not pretend to be children.”

“How can you be so cynical?” Queenie protests. “It is far more probable that Y/n is in the suds for something to do with the coven. Perhaps the Duke of Langdon threatened to expose us all if she did not… if she refused to-”

“Lift up her ankles?” offers Madison. “If that is the case, ought we be attempting to stop her?”

“Yes. We OUGHT,” says Lady Cordelia, in a voice so quietly deadly that Madison feels herself redden.  

“What we ought to have done, is stormed Langdon’s house a long time ago,” Mr. Gallant mutters, staring at the rain studding the dark of the window. “Lord knows what we might have found.”

“It was too great a risk, Thomas,” says Lady Cordelia. “It is a risk now. We are mad for doing this, to be sure. But we have no choice in the matter.”

Gallant does not look at her. “Pity that your husband did not warrant such urgency, Cordelia.” 

The entire coach seems to freeze with the statement.

“Do you think John Henry would have wanted my girls endangered for a vengeful lark?” the Duke of Goode’s widow asks his lover.

Before Gallant can deliver a rejoinder, the attention of everyone in the coach is captured by Coco Vanderbilt.

“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” the girl murmurs to the ball of orange fur in her lap. “Mummy is not going to let that mean Duke have you, my sweet.”

“Why on earth did you bring that thing?” snaps Madison.

Coco looks genuinely pained. “I did not know what else to do. It was either taking her with us, or leaving her behind with Lady Snow, who would surely turn her into a stole, on account that my crumpet matches her hair…”

“We need a battle plan,” says Zoe after clearing her throat. “We cannot expect to be greeted warmly upon our arrival.”

“I know how to pick locks,” says Gallant. When Lady Cordelia gives him a questioning look, he tells her, “We are not all to the manor born, my lady.”

“What if there are footmen?” asks Zoe.

“We have our weapons,” says Madison gleefully.

“Very well,” says Lady Cordelia. “But keep in mind: once we are in the house, we must stick together. You girls are hardly seasoned fighters.”

Coco swallows, the only activity that she has ever engaged in that might resemble ‘fighting’ is the time she threw a slipper at a mouse after it scurried out from behind the mirror in her boudoir. She immediately regretted it, of course, and was very glad to see it flee into the wall between two wood panels, blessedly unharmed. She fingers the dagger sheathed and belted with a ribbon about her waist. Cordelia gave Coco the dagger on the night the Coven made Lord Sotherton piss his trousers. It is a rather alarming object, for all that the handle is covered in pink gems and has resided in her jewellery box all this while. Coco did not even take it with her to the Revel that became the origin of all this trouble. 

“There is strength in our numbers, “continues Lady Cordelia, “but we must be prudent. Laying waste to the Duke’s household, would make us greater targets of the Brimstone Society. Our mission is simple, and must remain so: retrieve Y/n.” She looks pointedly at Mr. Gallant. “Can you manage this, Thomas?”

“I know the stakes, Cordelia. As I hope you do.”

Coco does not envy the man who is about to look the probable murderer of his lover in the eye and leave breath in his body.

“The Duke of Langdon is an evil, hateful, dangerous man, girls. He is capable of acts beyond the scope of your imagining.”

“Some of us can imagine more than others,” says Madison, gliding her hand lovingly over the handle of her pistol.

“But that is precisely it, Madison,” says Lady Cordelia with sudden, irrefutable certainty, “you cannot. Which is why you will give me that gun now.”

Madison stares across the coach from her in disbelief.

“Should I or Mr. Gallant’s choose to deliver vengeance on the Duke of Langdon, it shall not come at the cost of your innocence,” says Lady Cordelia resolutely.

“Innocence?” cries Madison. If she were talking to anyone other than Lady Cordelia right now, her exclamation would be accompanied by a snort.

Mr. Gallant turns and levels Madison with a patient, but grave look. “When you kill a person for the first time, Ms. Montgomery, a beautiful and tender thing inside of you dies, whether you acknowledge its existence or not.”

An eternity passes before Madison finally, with the reluctance of a magnet, surrenders the pistol to Lady Cordelia.

“Thank you,” the older woman says.

Were Coco not weighed down by the warm anchor of pup, she might attempt to leap out of a window right around now. Still, ever since she witnessed her father rolling around at the Brimstone revel with his dangly bits, well, dangling, she has come to understand human identity as a kind of patchwork, sewn continuously with new pieces. Perhaps, the Duke of Langdon will prove himself redeemable.

That is, of course, if he does not murder them all on arrival. Or gets murdered himself.

…………………………….

“Radcliffe, I am writing to the Archbishop of Canterbury to obtain a special license,” Michael says, dipping his pen into a gold, snake-adorned ink well in a forgotten parlour in the North wing of Langdon Manor.

A momentary tick of one eyebrow is all the reaction that the valet betrays. “Very good, My Lord.” Then, because Radcliffe is, despite his indignation over the condition, only human, he ventures, “to MARRY, Sir?”

Radcliffe, the cook, and two chambermaids have existed as quietly as shadows in this house for the last two days. It took every scrap of will in Michael’s being to leave a bed full of you to make plans and discuss necessities.

“Yes, I intend to marry,” says Michael, knowing full well how mad it must sound.

Radcliffe clears his throat. “To the err lady currently… visiting, Sir?”

“You know her name, Radcliffe,” says Michael tersely.

“Yes, My Lord.”

Vigorous bolts of rain patter against the rooftop as Michael finishes his letter. It is short, curt, and, truth be told, more of an order than a request. No man in Christendom, whether he serve god or devil, would dare deny the Duke of Langdon anything in his power to give. 

“Forgive my impertinence, my lord,” says Radcliffe, watching Michael apply his signet ring to the hot, red seal, “but is the young lady still affiliated with that vexing consortium of females who call themselves ‘the Coven’?”

“She is. In fact, Ms. Y/n is the most vexing of them all.”

Radcliffe’s face turns a shade whiter than eggshells. “I see, Sir.”

“I am most touched by the overflow of your felicitations, Radcliffe,” Michael deadpans. “Do stop before you wet the floor.”

“Allow me to offer my congratulations, Sir,” says the Valet. He does not smile. The last time he attempted such a thing, he frightened off a gaggle of children, and now he knows better. “Then, the troubles relating to the Coven have been neutralized?”

Michael frowns. “Not exactly.”

Radcliffe thinks for a moment, then hesitates before asking, “What of your other visitor, Sir, the one in the dungeons? Is that particular desolation to continue?”

“I do not know,” says Michael, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I need time to think.”

“If I recall correctly, Sir, you made a bargain to let the Duke of Goode out if he revealed the location of a certain diary.”

“Yes, I did,” snarls Michael. “What perfect recollection. Be assured that it will be a while yet before I wheelbarrow off you to the Almshouse, Radcliffe.”

“What joy, Sir.”

“The Duke of Goode delivered on his end of the bargain,” Michael says. “I promised his imminent release.”

“Wherein lies the problem, Sir?” asks Radcliffe. “Surely, you can fear no reprisal from the man. Even if you flogged him black and blue, he would not dare.”

Michael nods. “You are you right, Radcliffe. And still, I am in dilemma.”

Even watching the valet’s face shrivel in distaste as he comes to understand the situation does not offer Michael respite from his misery. “I see, Sir,” says the Valet quietly. “It might imperil your nuptuals if Ms. Y/n were to find out that you have played host to the unwilling Duke of Goode for the past eight months. Then, of course, there is the torture...”

“She would not like it.”

“No,” says Radcliffe as though remarking on an eccentricity. “But if it becomes known to her later on, then the duration of the deceit might serve to compound-”

“Exactly.”

“You could keep Lord Goode down there forever, Sir.”

“I could.” For a moment, Michael indulges himself in the rather muscular fantasy of becoming Blue Beard. “I could.

“It would carry risks, of course,” he adds. “Killing John Henry would be the easiest thing. Corpses are not in danger of escaping their bonds or spilling their secrets, are they? Nor must one be bothered with feeding them.”

“The infernal trouble, Sir,” says Radcliffe, narrowing his eyes, “is that you do not mean that.”

Michael nearly balks at the impertinence. But before he can launch his sound and fury, the realization that his valet is right jolts him. He could burn down a city. He could start a crusade, all in the name of self-hatred.

Why?

Why is he like this?

What has HAPPENED to him?

Michael is perfectly aware that, if John Henry were to find himself factually and permanently dead, a great portion of his troubles would be over. The problem is that he seems to have sprouted something… a heart? A misguided sense of loyalty? Michael is unsure, but it is there now, entrenched as gout. To kill John Henry would feel like betraying you, whether you know it or not. Whether you give him credit or not.

“You do not know what you talk of, Radcliffe,” he hisses. “I should do it now. Perhaps I should polish Goode’s bones and send them back to his wife as an assortment of wind instruments.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I could make a wine chalice out of his skull!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“The allegory would be potent.”

“As would the Cabernet, Sir, I am sure.”

What a morass this is! A solution that does not involve murder or captivity is nigh impossible, no matter how hard Michael thinks. “Ms. Y/n would never forgive me…” he grumbles.

Radcliffe cannot, for the life of him, imagine why the ‘forgiveness’ of a low-in-the-pockets, undoubtedly designing female would even be required. But he goes with it. “Is not forgiveness the very bedrock of wifely character, Sir? If your Ms. Y/n is acquainted with the order of things, she will be glad to-”

The glare that Michael pins him with then stops the course of Radcliffe’s blood.

“Ms. Y/n’s love is the counterforce of death. THAT is the order of things. That, and nothing else,” Michael stuns himself by saying. “She is stronger, braver, better, and more honourable than anyone I have known. The only reason I am here, Radcliffe, and not in a bathtub with my veins opened, is the frail hope that she, in her divine and infinite compassion, might, one day, forgive my shortcomings; the horrors I have wrought, the weakness, the arrogance, the evil that has ravened my existence from childhood.”

Self hatred blows like smoke in Michael’s eyes as he looks from the valet to the window where the storm is still wilding.

“It is late,” he says quietly, “and we still have the Brimstone revel to plan. We shall refrain from further discussion of the subject for the time being.”

“Yes, Sir.” The Valet fetches his ledger from the table. “I have done as you asked my lord, and summoned Lady Meade and Lord Chablis, as well as your Parisian guests, the Vicomte de Legba, his new bride Nannette, and Madame La Veaux. Your Cousin Mallory sends her regrets, having reached that period of her confinement where travel is deemed imprudent. Your followers are not going to appreciate so many new members in their midst at once but-”

 “What did you say about my cousin Mallory?” Michael interrupts.

Radcliffe stares at him as though his last wit has run away with the spoon. “She is breeding, My Lord, as is not uncommon in ladies of her age and constitution.”

The floor beneath Michael’s feet falls.

As is not uncommon…

Dear Lord.

During his sojourn in Paris, Michael was acquainted with his mother’s brother’s daughter, Mallory Delompre. Around the time of Leo Langdon’s death, his cousin married a gangly, mild-mannered Marquise she claimed to love ‘to agitation’. He is not surprised to hear that she is with child. It is generally the expectation for lately married aristocrats to commence with heir-making as quickly as can be managed. 

And yet he is stunned by the invocation of pregnancy.

He grips the edge of the writing desk.

“Are you quite all right, Sir?”

Michael is not ‘quite all right’. He is either terrified or ecstatic. He is not sure which it is at present.

He finished inside of you.

Not on purpose. That is to say… Who can tell if some Machiviel part of Michael pushed the impulse, then made it appear- even to his own mind- as mere thoughtlessness?

He was swept up in the moment, enveloped in the tight Valhalla of your cunt. He did not think, he simply spent.

It happened, first, under the eye of that monstrous telescope. And then, unforgivably, it happened again, some hours ago, in his bed.

You were writhing beneath him, so sweaty, warm and alive, gazing up at him with the overwhelming opposite of hatred. HIM. It was as though the mere act of your looking at Michael made him clean.

Which he is not.

And never was.

And never will be. 

If you bear his child, you will have no choice but to stay with him, no matter his crimes. Michael knows that he is foul for being pleased by the idea. He is foul for a lot of things concerning you, though. This is probably seventh or eighth on the list, in between taking your innocence, and belittling you for months. He is a monster. Not worthy of love. And yet, what would he not give, including his own life a thousand times over, to marry you, to be loved by you, even knowing the worst? Michael would destroy, vein by vein, the all-powerful man that he struggled all his life to become.

“Are you quite all right, Sir?” asks Radcliffe. “You look as though you’ve been caught by blue devils.”

Michael looks up and shakes his head as if to dislodge a shard of madness. “Do not make a cake of yourself Radcliffe, I am perfectly fine!” he barks.

“I beg your pardon, My Lord. Shall we proceed with preparations then?”

“Not at present,” Michael says heading for the door. “I must attend to something else; something of greater importance.”

Radcliffe wonders what could be of greater importance than ruling the world, but he does not ask. He merely bows his acquiescence and watches his Master bolt out of the room as though his britches are on fire.

Love, thinks the valet, is surely the worst affliction a man of mode can suffer. It is worse than venereal sores. It is worse, even, than becoming frenchified. The latter, at least, might be cured by a dosage of Mercury.

Radcliffe shakes his head. His hellish Lordship wants to change the world and usher in an age of ‘progress’, ‘equality’ and ‘enlightenment’. But can he be bothered to look over a guest list? Of course bloody not. If it were not for his valet, the wall sconces at Darkholme Abbey would still be splattered in seed from the last revel… And what sort of milieu would that be for LADIES?

…………………………..

In the night you wake and reach across the bed to touch the man who will be your husband.

He is not there.

The fact makes you suddenly alert. You sit up and look about the room. The only light is the ruddy glow of the fireplace, and the occasional strobe of lightning in the windows.

“Michael?”

The name curls like smoke in the cavernous space.

You rise and don a dressing and slippers.

The hallways of Langdon Manor loom with shadows. The stone floor, polished to a mirror, sprouts rows of columns joined by vaulted arches. Portraits and cameos of generations of disapproving Langdons leer at you from the walls. Drifting through with your diaphanous night dress trailing behind you would seem a parody of an overwrought novel, if you were not genuinely alarmed.

“Michael?”

You are afraid, but that it is silly. Fear is merely one of the more unpleasant derivatives of possessing an imagination. This is what you tell yourself.

“Michael?”

The east wing ends abruptly with a massive door, adorned with iron moldings, and opened a crack. On the other side of this door, the house changes. Baroque profusion is abandoned to unfinished stone, and a staircase that droops into darkness. Your fear sharpens then, but you are propelled forward. It is as though a powerful undertow is taking you toward the building’s foundations.

You reach the bottom with an echoing thud. Above, there are exposed ceiling beams. On the walls, there are manacles and lit, gutted torches.

It is dungeon, you realize.

You have come upon a dungeon.

And it is a dungeon in the classic sense; a dungeon worthy of the medieval. And, o no, it is not some dingy, forgotten dungeon either. The cruelty that dwells here is fresh as newly applied paint. The air is warm and carries a human odor; the sickening, unmistakable smell of life being trampled upon.

The further you go, the fouler it grows, until you reach the end of a narrowing corridor.

What you see kicks the air from your lungs.

‘Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage,’ wrote Lovelace in his famous poem.

Well, he was wrong.

This is a cage.

There is a person inside it- or, at least, it is a kind of spectral creature that appears to be holding on to shape of one, despite conditions contradictory to personhood. He does not notice you at first, his focus fixed upon some irregularity on the wall in front of him.

The man is handsome, or rather, he would be, if he were not emaciated, if his eyelids did not look as brittle as dried cornflower petals over the pink globes of his eyes, if his cheeks were not basins deep enough to collect grime; if his beard was not matted, if his limbs were not frail and overlong beneath tattered clothing. 

You know, without thinking or needing to ask, who has put this man here. The hideous certainty swallows you up like a void.

Michael.

Michael has done this.

Eventually, with some effort, you locate your tongue.

“H-hello?”

The man’s eyes widen when he sees you. He makes a choked, startled noise and you are acutely conscious of the energy wasted on it. You stare at one another in mutual shock. Then the bony, bearded man surprises you by rising to stand and addressing you by name.

“Ms. Y/n, are you harmed?”

Harmed?

You?

 “Are you all right?”

The cell is a kaleidoscope of stench. Bile rises to your throat and mouth in a forceful stream. You swallow it back, not wishing to render the dungeon ranker and less habitable to the poor man inhabiting it.

“You are in shock, but you must breathe, Ms. Y/n. Put your head between your legs if needs must. Cordelia would not like to lose one of her girls over my sorry hide. Of that I can be sure.”

“You know C-cordelia?”

“She is my wife,” says the man. His posture straightens almost imperceptibly before he bows- ACTUALLY BOWS- and introduces himself. “John Henry Moore, eleventh Duke of Goode, pleased to make your acquaintance. Though I do wish it were in better circumstances. “I know,” says the Duke of Goode with a rueful smile. “Not dead. Although, to be fair, I probably look it.”

Like the consummate gentleman that he is, Lord Goode allows time for your mind to make the appropriate modifications.

Misty Day swears, to this day, that she met a ghost on a foggy evening at the docks when she was a wee, pickpocketing child. ‘You don’t know if it be a ghost until you notice the floating…’ she confided in you.

John Henry does not appear to be floating. If anything, he is TOO solid. There is a weightiness to Cordelia’s husband that bears no relation to his size. He has, to put it a tad tritely, a weightiness of character. You have heard stories about this man. Before he ‘died’ he was the most progressive Whig of his generation; a force to be reckoned with. The steady, blue gaze that is famous for unsteadying objects of its focus is on you like a searchlight, alarming but comfortingly bright.

And this is who Michael has dared stuff into a cage in the ground…

“My lord, how long have you been here?” you ask, willing yourself not to cast any crumpets all over the floor in front of Lady Cordelia’s not-so-late husband. 

“I am not entirely sure,” admits Lord Goode. “How long have I been ‘dead’?”

How long?

Dear god.

Since before you arrived in London. Which seems a lifetime ago…

“Never mind that, what month is it?” he asks.

“May.”

Lord Goode’s face falls. It is an expression so helpless and intimate that you are compelled to look away into his cell. It is just long enough to fit a bench, on which, you presume, he sleeps. Next to it, a rusty bucket brims with water he has made. You imagine him living in this confinement, days and nights blurring indistinguishably. The ceiling is dripping. That dripping alone would be enough to breed madness in a less durable man. While you and Michael were rutting all over the house above, John Henry was down here with that dripping.

After knowing the vastness of the sea and sky, what man, what animal, could endure it? What creature could inflict this upon another?

“How are my family?” asks Lord Goode, corralling himself. “Are they in good health?”

“Yes, Sir. Cordelia and Mr. Gallant are well.”

Fuck. Poor choice of words. “I mean, they miss you horribly. They are always talking about you. I am sure that they could never be called ‘well’ for missing you, my Lord.”

There are a thousand more questions you long to ask, but, with a sudden, panicked bolt, you realize that it falls on you to get the Duke of Goode safely out of here.

But how to do that?

 There must be some way to get you out of here,” you say, looking around for anything with which to pick the lock on the cell door.

Lord Goode’s expression darkens. “No, Ms. Y/n,” he says. “You must not undertake any action before you understand the nature of the situation we are both in. Langdon is likely looking for you this very moment. You must return to him at once. He must not suspect that you have found me.”

You stare at him disbelief. “What? Leave you here?”

He nods. “You must.”

“I cannot simply leave you to rot, Sir!”

“Ms. Y/n, please listen. The Duke of Langdon has promised my release. I understand that you wish to help me, but your presence here might jeopardize our…”, here, the Duke of Goode looks down at the ground in shame. “Our agreement.”

“Agreement?”

“Langdon has kept me here for eight months because I refused to disclose the location of a diary that could ruin him. I have been beaten and tortured. But I never succumbed. Until three days ago. Three days ago, I told him where his Father’s diary was.”

There follows a long, suffocating silence. Greif and terror pour out of you in slow, stinging tears.

“M-Michael has done this?”

“Yes.”

“I had no idea, my lord… Please forgive me. I never would have-”

 “How could have known, my dear? You are his victim even more than I.”

“No,” you whisper. “I am not…”

“You had no part in it, Ms. Y/n. No one in the coven will hold your… liaison with the Duke against you.”

‘Your liaison’. He makes it sound like a silly mistake; a bout of bad judgement; an indiscretion brought on by youthful folly.

But it was never that.

You loved Michael. God help you, you still love him. And yet what he has done is not merely wrong, it is evil. Surely, anyone who sees evil and does not stand up and oppose it, becomes, in their own way, complicit.

“If I had only known, Lord Goode, I would have done anything to free you.”

“What you ‘did not know’ could fill the library of Alexandria, Ms. Y/n,” comes a familiar voice from the corridor. You turn in time to see Michael step into the pooling torchlight.

It is the casual cruelty of his tone that runs you through you like a sword; and the fact that he has addressed you formally. What does it say about you, you wonder, if, of all the horror present here, THAT is what your heart is annihilated by?

“When a man has brokered a whore,” says Michael, “one does not like her to abandon her post. Especially when the ‘liaison’, as Lord Goode here called it, is so near its termination.”

You want to scream. You want to rail. You want to tear at the immaculate threads of his shirt. What is he speaking of? What in Christ is going on? Can this even BE Michael? He is moving, talking and acting not like the man you know, but the man the world thinks him to be; harsher than iron, contemptuous of life.

“Tell me that this is not as it seems, Michael,” is all you can say. “Tell me that you have not kept a human being in darkness and torment for eight months.”

Michael’s mouth twitches at one corner. “I see that you have met Langdon Manor’s OTHER guest. I am afraid that his accommodations have not been as palatial as yours.”

“Why?”

“Why?” He lets out a laugh. “Because the Duke of Goode was acting contrary to my interests. If you had been alive on this putrid planet a few years longer, Ms. Y/n, or not been quite as sheltered by your dunce of a father, you might recognize that acting contrary to my interests, general dooms people.”

You blink back the sear of tears. “Michael, why are you talking like this? Look at Lord Goode! He is half-starved and requires a physician!”

Michael rakes his prisoner over with a disaffected gaze. “He may consult one if he so wishes. Goode is free to go as of this moment. And so are you, Ms. Y/n, though, technically, not all of your nights have been not paid in full.”

“Free or not, Langdon,” fumes Lord Goode from behind his prison bars, “I will not allow a lady to be spoken to thus in my presence!”

Michael rakes him with the sort of expression one might bestow upon a particularly fetid dung heap. “Come now, Goode. Such chivalry is wasted on harlots.”

“Am I to believe that, suddenly, this is all am to you?” you ask, as calmly as possible.

As you stare at Michael, you perceive a firefly-quick flicker of the most unspeakable pain you have ever seen a human face wear. It kills you, and at the same time it saves you.

The Duke of Langdon turns to his prisoner. “Would you mind taking her with you when you quit the premises?” he asks. “One does not like to wake up with souvenirs of last nights intemperance dawdling about the house.”

“You’re a bastard,” breathes Lord Goode.

“I assure you, I am the only legitimate issue of my fathers’ hateful loins,” says Michael as he takes out a ring of keys and uses the smallest to open he lock of Lord Goodes’ cage.

It takes a moment for the prisoner to register his freedom. Then, with a few halting steps, he steps out of the cell. He is more wobbly on his feet than a foul.

“My coach will take you,” says Michael. “Though in this rain, you will likely only make it to Devon.” He points to you but does not look. “And do take that abominable girl with you.”

“I am not going anywhere,” you tell him.

“If you are worried about what will become of your reputation, Ms. Y/n,” says Lord Goode in a tactful voice, “Rest assured that Cordelia will do everything possible to mitigate-”

“With the greatest respect, Lord Goode, ‘my reputation’ can go fly a bonnet.”

“If you will not take leave willingly,” snarls Michael, “then you will be chucked out. It makes entirely no difference to me.”

This is insane. This is bizarre. This is a nightmare. It must be. It was mere hours ago that Michael was holding you, proclaiming his love, begging you to marry him. Was that all part of the deception? Was it all meant to punish you for being an incursion upon his notorious life? Has Michael not proven himself, time and time again, to be an artisan of cruelty? Or is he attempting to paint himself as unfeeling, to spare himself the pain of your rejection?

“Michael,” you beg, “please do not do this…”

“Be quiet!” he orders, the rolling music of his voice cracking and breaking slightly. “Do you imagine that I felt anything when I seduced you, Ms. Y/n?” He steps closer. Close enough to smell. Close enough to kiss. “It was a game,” he whispers, “nothing more than that. I set out to seduce the most missish of Lady Cordelia’s virgins. The pleasure of ruining you, Ms. Y/n, was tempered only by the ease with which it was accomplished. Even goats prefer more the grass that they are forced to strain their necks for.”

“No.”  It is a plea, really, reflexive and painful as the next breath of air. “Please, no…” The body in which you are an unfortunate guest sways a little. You realize what is happening to you, what you are ALLOWING to happen: Michael is breaking your heart. “You do not mean what you are saying,” you say, more strongly. Anger, the great saviour in such instances, is beginning to roar.

“Don’t I?” asks Michael. “What makes it so unbelievable? Perhaps you only think so because you are ashamed of how you opened for your enemy. I believe that there is not a single liberty you would have denied me.”

“It is true,” you admit freely. “I trusted you completely. Though ‘trust’ is a concept apparently lost on you.”

“I understand the concept well enough, Ms. Y/n. I simply do not indulge in it.”

“No. I suppose you do not. How pitiful.”

Michael’s dead eyes flash with something live then. “And still,” he says, “you hang upon me like a bout of shingles. Even now. I wonder why that should be.”

 “I am not ‘hanging upon’ you! You blackmailed me into your bed. I should have died rather than let you touch me if I had known you were keeping Lord Goode in your dungeon.”

“Knowing Goode was down here all along was part of the fun, Ms. Y/n. Why else would I have bothered with you, when I could have indulged my proclivities with a woman of experience?”

The words fall on you like stones. “Is that why you begged me to MARRY YOU? Because of your ‘proclivities’? I may have given you my virtue, Lord Langdon, but thank god I did not go as far as to become your legal chattel!”

“Good thing I never wanted it.”

In that moment, Michael feels a pulse of self loathing so great that it nearly unsteadies his feet. He makes himself stand. He makes himself keep eye contact. The only way to survive the world in your absence without running to fall at your feet is to make this as bad as it can possibly be, to make it irrevocable.

When Michael returned to an empty bedroom in the dead of night, he sensed that his funeral feast was at hand. He had known intuition like this only twice in his life.

The first time was when he heard the housekeeper at Langdon Manor inquire as to the whereabouts of a red headed stable boy the eve before a Brimstone Revel. A day later, Michael, then seventeen, watched behind a plague doctor mask, as the young man was stabbed by one of his Father’s cronies. No matter how hard he tried to will it, his heart would not become a rock.

The second time was the last night he had held Isabella Darwood in his arms. Even before his father arrived, he had sensed the thing that bridged them fade like a rainbow.

Compared to this moment, those instances are trifling.

You are not some poor, unfortunate stable boy. Nor are you Isabella Darwood. In fact, Michael would hesitate to even call you a ‘lover’. To him, you are not a separate person at all but an expansion of his own soul, just as he is an expansion of yours. Therefore, to utter an unkind word to you is to slaughter himself.

But what can Michael do?

You came. You saw. You understand at last. How can you ever be anything but sickened by him now? You hate him, as you should. He disgusts you, as he should. ‘Right’ and ‘wrong’ are not meaningless categories to you. And now, Michael’s life is over. Because the only way to love you properly, now, is to leave you.

Though he knows it to be the best thing for your lasting happiness, a shock of regret goes through him at the sight of you breaking. 

When he cannot bear it a moment longer, he turns to his former captive, and says, “Women. Be thankful that you have never been seized by the craving to fuck one, Goode. Some of them cannot decide if they are leeches, or martyrs.”

At the precise moment that you become certain of the inevitability of Lord Goode reaching out to throttle Michael, you hear a familiar voice; female and dry as October grass:

“Perhaps it is best just to shoot you and skip over the agony of decisions, ” says Lady Cordelia Goode, stepping out of the shadow space of the corridor, trailed by Coco, Madison, Queenie, Zoe and Mr. Gallant. She is pointing a pistol at Michael’s heart. Which means she may as well be pointing it at yours.

“DEAR LORD, JOHN HENRY!” shouts Mr. Gallant, and runs to him. The two men collide, kissing, embracing, not caring at all for their audience. There is an air of disbelief to the reunion. Mr. Gallant utters a stream of curses.

No one else moves, as if for fear of breaking a mirage.

“Hell’s bells, he’s bloody alive…” says Madison shaking her head.

“I wonder what it is about my properties that make your ‘Coven’ so eager to trespass them,” drawls Michael. “This is the third time in a fortnight. Perhaps I should acquire guard dogs.”

“When one makes a habit of kidnapping young ladies, trespassing, especially the armed variety, is to be expected,” says Lady Cordelia. She addresses her husband, while keeping her eyes, and her gun, on Michael. “Are you all right, John Henry?”

“I am fine,” he answers gruffly.

“And you, Y/n?” Lady Cordelia asks.

“She is fine,” Michael snarls. “Just take her with you. I have grown weary of her…”

You assiduously avoid the stunned expressions of your friends.

“What have you done with her, you lecherous snake?” Lady Cordelia spits.

“Do you really wish me to answer that?” asks Michael. “Perhaps it would be better to receive the details from the shag-bag herself.”

Coco, SWEET COCO, rears up behind Lady Cordelia and shouts, “Don’t you call my cousin a shag-bag, your Lordship!”

You hear the cocking of a pistol.

 “PLEASE DON’T SHOOT HIM, LADY GOODE!” you say. “I am unharmed. I swear it.”

“She won’t shoot,” says Michael, “She would not risk the freedom of her precious ‘girls’ when the only thing to gain is vengeance upon a creature like me.”

There is a stratum of self loathing beneath that statement that you do not have time to dwell on.

“You are not exempt from the law,” says Mr. Gallant, breaking away from his lover for the first time since their reunion.

“You are right,” replies Michael. “I am not exempt from the law, Mr. Gallant. I AM the law.”

The truth of the statement pervades the dungeon like a sweeping cold.

“That might be true, Langdon,” hisses Gallant, “but you are not immortal.” He appears set to lunge at his enemy.

“Swallow your spleen, Thomas!” says John Henry Goode, holding him back. “I did not spend eight months of my life down here simply to endanger you all now.”

“He must pay for taking you from us!” Gallant reaches into his breast, where you are certain there is a gun when a newcomer is heard clamoring into the dungeon.

You will never forget the moment Michael’s grim-faced valet, Radcliffe, enters the chamber brandishing a pistol of his own and pointing it at Lady Cordelia’s back. In the pages of your memory, the moment will be tinged forever with absurdity, fear and – to your eternal shame- relief. 

“I have no qualms about shooting women, My Lady,” the valet informs the leader of the Coven, using the same tone he would if he were commanding one of the under butlers to shine a snuff box.

“Put the pistol down, Lady Goode,” advises Michael. “Take your people and go. I am giving you the chance to save yourselves. You have my word that I will not speak of what has transpired between me and Ms. Y/n. Not that I ever intended to boast about bedding a nothing like her.”

Your cheeks burn. You wish the floor would open and swallow you up right then and there.

“Destiny is not in harmony with the Coven, Lady Goode,” Michael goes on. “Right now, your best course of action consists in recognizing the precariousness of your position. I have ledgers on each and every one of you. Your bacon brain of a husband has succumbed to the torments of his captivity and relinquished the single artefact that might- in a better world- have brought me down.”

“That is not true!” protests Lord Goode indignantly. “I gave you the location of the diary because you are in love with Ms. Y/n.”

All heads in the room, save for those of Michael and his gun toting valet, turn in your direction.

“That was a lie, Lord Goode,” you say. “The Duke of Langdon had us both for fools.”

“What is it going to be, Lady Goode?” says Michael, ignoring you. “Swallow your pride and save your friends? Or spend their blood simply to make a point?”

Lady Cordelia’s mouth thins to a line as she considers what little options happen to be at hand. Finally, her pistol comes down.

“Put it on the floor,” Michael instructs.

Lady Cordelia does what he says. She watches him and seems to grow taller, dignified even in defeat.

“My coach is big enough to accommodate all of you,” says Michael. “Let this be a lesson not to come uninvited to one of my meetings in the future. This was amusing. But I might not be as tolerant next time.”

“Let us leave this defiling snake to his pit,” says Lady Cordelia, turning her heels and leading her entourage back to the staircase.

Only Mr. Gallant, whose fists are balled tightly at his sides, appears as reluctant to quit the premises as you are. ‘I will be avenged upon you’ his eyes promise Michael.

You cannot believe what is happening. One by one, the Coven are shuffled out of the room under the eagle eye of Michael’s butler. The last into the corridor are you, Michael and Coco.

Your cousin keeps throwing glances back at you. There is such an abundance of compassion- and absence of judgement- in her demeanor that it makes you want to embrace her and never come out of her arms.

“Michael,” you whisper, trying one last time to reach him before you depart forever. “Please don’t let it end like this…”

“How did you foresee ‘it’ ending, Ms. Y/n?”

“I didn’t.”

“Liar.”

 “I will go to my grave thinking of you,” you say with tears in your eyes.

“Be that as it may,” he says. “If you do not remove yourself from my sight in the next few minutes, I am going to stuff your cousin Coco into that cage and throw away the key.”

You feel Michael’s hesitation straining the air between you. But just when it seems that some evil spell is about to be broken, you hear Lady Cordelia hastening her Coven up the stairs, out of hell.

“Your leader is calling you,” says Michael, sounding almost physically far away.

You turn to climb the stairs, then look back to him. “Your reign will end one day, Lord Langdon,” you say. “The crawling, miserable creatures who follow you do so only because they dread your punishment. But you are not your Father. I have seen enough for myself to know that.

“Promise me, at least, that, one day, you will allow yourself to be loved. The absence of love is not the avoidance of pain, as you have been taught to believe.”

Because you are unwilling to bear the scorn likely writ on his face, you turn before you see Michael’s reaction.

……………………

It has stopped raining by the time you board the coach. On the ride back to Goode Manor, a blood red sunrise filters through the damp trees. The sea shines like a gold coin. Birds get on with the business of singing. Inexplicably, the world has not ended.

Your friends grant you the mercy of silence for the first few legs of the journey. Then, somewhere near Devon, shaking with grief, you tell them everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello perfect readers! I am so deeply grateful for your interest and, not to mention, patience!  
> Please forgive the abysmal lateness of updating. Work has been extremely busy and finding time/GETTING IN THE ZONE to write has been really challenging. Things just weren’t flowing in the usual way and I just bumbled along through at a snail’s pace. Fic writers who read this, do you ever get this feeling? It’s normal, right? Like, when you hate everything that’s coming out but then think ‘aaaah, I am just gonna post it anyway!! What else can I dooooooooo?’ I am down to hear any advice you guys may have to offer on the subject if you have felt this way sometimes in your own writing. Anyway, something just kinda feels off to me about this chapter, but here it is, warts and all, because I could not have it staring at me from the computer a moment longer. Hopefully the next will feel better and read better too.  
> THANK YOU SO MUCH for your incredibly lovely support and encouragement. It honestly moves me to tears. Y’all are the absolute best. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to share writing and have fun: D You make me feel s lucky.  
> “Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage” is from the famous poem ‘To Althea, from Prison’ by Richard Lovelace,  
> In her bed time bout of uncertainty, Y/n thinks of Icarus and his arguable Hindu counterpart, Sampati. If you don’t know the story of Jatayu and Sampati, check it out, it’s pretty cool!  
> In the olden days, people referred to the latter stages of pregnancy as going into ‘Confinement’. This was when they expecting lady would not even venture out of the house.  
> ‘Vicomte de Legba’, Nannette, Chablis and Madame La Veaux, as well as ‘Cousin Mallory’ were some AHS Season 8 folks I was dying to incorporate har har.  
> An Almshouse= something kind of like an old folks home (for the slightly disenfranchised)  
> To be ‘Frenchified’= a very rude British regency term for one becoming infected with a venereal disease. #regencyxenophobia. Incidentally, mercury was the most popular treatment for syphilis during this era.  
> I am kind of picturing Radcliffe as that butler from Coven played by Dennis O’hare. You know the one.  
> “Swallow your spleen, Thomas!”= control your rage, Thomas!  
> “He’s swimming in the lard”= he is so wealthy!  
> INFINITE LOVE, THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH AGAIN FOR READING XO  
> Ps. I believe in happy endings every time for regency romances, HINT HINT. But this Duke really gotsda get it together…


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

…………………………

“What cannot be said will be wept.”

― Sappho

………………………….

When Michael was eleven years old his ribs were cracked by the grounds keeper, a twenty stone man, too towering to comfortably stand in the hut he lived in at the edge of the property. The injury was carried out at the behest of Leo Langdon.

It was late November and the grass was sharp with frost against Michael’s cheek. As per orders, the grounds keeper had left him in the forest like broken doll. The silhouettes of pine trees seemed to close around him. The sun was setting; the sky overhead, the colour of a grape. There was numbing coldness spreading through his body and Michael found it a welcome respite from the deep pain where he breathed. For some, distance, he crawled. Night fell. Wolves began to howl.

When Charity Gibbs, the forester’s eldest daughter found him, his consciousness was in fragments. She prodded his body for injuries, and it brought Michael back to the world, in glimmers. She hoisted him onto her shoulders as though he were bearskin, and she Hercules, like the illustration in his favorite book. He remembers one thing very clearly: begging her not to show herself to the master of the house. “If he sees you,” he wheezed, “he will p-punish you.” Michael forced himself to speak, though his vocal cords felt like they had been ripped. He spoke out of organs and tissues that he was not sure still existed. Because he had to. Because he was beginning to suspect that his father did not merely beat and break people, but also made them disappear. Charity was brave and lovely. Michael did not consider his own lordly life to be anything as worthy as hers. He clutched the young woman’s hands with his own, “Please Miss. Gibbs.”

She left him, thank god.

It was a solitary heap of boy the servants found when they opened the doors to the back garden of Langdon Manor.

“We must not be too gentle,” one of the footmen warned another. “If the Duke suspects that we are coddling the little lord…”

The sentence did not need to be finished. Everyone understood. Michael understood too, implicitly.

Back then, he had regarded it as something like being born with a curse. He was like one of those bastard children of Zeus that Hera made it her life’s work to punish for existing. There were no serpents coiling about in his crib. But there were games keepers. And cracked ribs.

It turned out that the injury was a mite worse than what was initially intended. Leo Langdon even feared that he might lose his heir.

For weeks, Michael floated away from his own body. Further and further he drifted, toward some faraway shore that was warm, and full of kind feelings, and kind people. His fever burned like hellfire, but Michael shivered with cold. Wet cloths were pressed to his forehead. He dreamt of icebergs, tall and regal, moving in waters of pure blue silt, the colour of his mother’s eyes, if the stories were to be believed.

The rest was pain.  

The only tether there existed to hold him to life, was pain, throbbing in the place where, before, he had merely breathed.

But as excruciating as that particular pain was, what Michael feels now is worse.

…………………………….

When Radcliffe finds his master, the day after the crisis in the dungeon, he is in a worse way than even the valet had anticipated. Last night, there were sounds from upstairs. Animal sounds. Crashing sounds. Radcliffe did as any sane man who must awake at dawn would, he covered his ears with a pillow, and slept.

Today, the room in which the Duke sleeps seems to have undergone events that are shade more calamitous than those described in the book of Revelations.   

The curtains have been torn from the windows and now resemble a shipyard full of broken sails. On the Safavid carpets that his Lordship so coveted, there are shards of broken glass, pottery and stains of an alarming variety of textures and colours. Radcliffe clocks blood, vomit, bile, wine, absinthe and many combinations thereof. He brings a steadying hand to the wall, only to find it similarly begrimed.

Fighting his own desire to gag, Radcliffe steps further into the hellscape. The bedsheets have been torn from the enormous four poster- well, it is actually on a two-poster now. The chandelier has fallen and shattered. Next to it, the Duke himself is lying, drunk as possum riding a wheelbarrow, awake but barely.

Lord Langdon’s skin bears the hue of a three-day old corpse in the London morgue, and he smells only slightly better.

With reserves of strength left over from his boxing days fighting Gentleman Jackson, Radcliffe takes the heavy, ragdoll body of his master over his arm and pulls him down the hallway into the bathroom suite at the opposite end of the wing. He will not venture to know what his Lordship has made of the Ducal one, at least, not at the delicate hour of noon.

As he is scrubbing the Duke, Radcliffe is careful to hold his golden head above the water. It would not do to hang for murdering the Leader of the Brimstone Society. If that honour should fall on anyone, thinks Radcliffe, it should be those cantankerous Coven ladies.

The Duke mumbles incoherent things about- WHO ELSE? - Miss. Y/n. There are tears at one point, to Radcliffe’s horror. He splashes some water at the man and hopes for the best, then pulls him out of the tub when he senses he is near to passing out again. He dearly hopes that no other valet in Yorkshire will have occasion to see the shoddy job Radcliffe has made of his master’s maintenance today. Why, Lord Langdon is not even shaven! Best to avoid blades though, for the time being.

Once the woefully stubbly Duke has been tucked into bed in one of the un-destroyed bedrooms, Radcliffe goes to the desk to write what he judges to be the most important missive of his life. He knows that the recipient will forgive its bluntness, time being of the utmost essence.

‘Lady Meade,

Your presence is required in Yorkshire.

Come at once.’

Regards, Radcliffe 

………………….

The first thing that Lady Miriam Meade thinks when she reads the urgent message is: ‘I do hope that that nice Duke of Devonshire has not expired in the Dungeon.’ John Henry Goode is so good at the lost art of conversation, and, before months of deprivation gave him the look of a martyr in an El Greco Painting, he was rather handsome too.

Rising amid the cacophony of Madame Labelska’s Tea Room in Drury Lane, Miriam gathers up her voluminous skirts, and mutters her apologies to her friend, Mrs. Cheveley. “It looks like I am not for the theatre tonight,” she says with a sigh. “The country, and my nephew, call.”

At the mention of Michael, Mrs. Cheveley’s bosom heaves, and her jade green eyes turn misty. “Give the Duke my regards,” she says breathily.

Miriam has seen this particular reaction often enough not to roll her eyes anymore. It is as though a lustful haze descends upon ladies of the ton at the invocation of her nephew. She supposes that it is to be expected. Her sister, and Michael’s mother, Vivienne, was second coming of Aphrodite. She turned men’s brains to custard whenever she entered a room. Until she saw Michael’s dispatch with women, Miriam had always assumed that a women’s brains were made of sturdier stuff.  

“I do hope that we can reconvene next week, my dear Lady Meade,” Mrs. Cheveley simpers, leaning in for an air kiss. “Perhaps, you can bring your nephew along? ‘The School for Scandal’ is one of my particular favorites…”

“I am sure it is, my dear, I am sure it is.”

Miriam has time only to pack her valise with the essentials before boarding the Barouche. If Lady Myrtle Snow’s cryptic, but TELLING, letters are any indication, she knows EXACTLY what- or rather, WHO, has her nephew’s britches in a twist.  

……………………..

“Don’t go into the Dukes’ chambers, my Lady,” Radcliffe warns Miriam Meade as she billows through the corridor past the site of ruin. “In fact, don’t even turn around. Don’t LOOK. And try not to breathe either, unless your ladyship wishes to have her four humors assaulted by the blight of it.”

Lady Meade disregards this. She blunders into the Ducal bedroom and inspects the mess with the same gravelly stoicism Marcus Aurelius displayed when he assessed carnage on the banks of the Danube. She crosses her arms over her bosom, where her raven black gown is cut a centimetre lower than is generally deemed correct for woman of her years, and nods. “So,” she says, “this is the shape of it. Why did you not send for me earlier?”

“It came on suddenly, my Lady. I have never known the Duke of Langdon to lose his mind over anything- least of all… a woman.”

“I have,” says Lady Meade. “Once. Over a decade ago, now. Darwood. But that was not… like this.”

“Lady Darwood aside,” says Radcliffe wringing his hands. “I have always regarded Lord Langdon as a consummate Machiviel, and a man of reason.”

Lady Meade blinks. “Does this look to you like the work of a rational man, Radcliffe?” she asks, gesturing at the broken room. As if to punctuate her point, a chunk of plaster falls from the ceiling and lands dustily at her foot.

“No, Lady Meade. It does not.”

“No,” the old woman agrees. “My nephew may hide it well most of the time, but he makes Lord Byron look like a very sensible, and marriageable young fellow that a card-carrying Tory of a Papa dearly wishes to have as his son-in-law. Now show me where you’ve tucked him away, Radcliffe.”

“Yes, My Lady.”   

……………………..

A cold compress is placed on Michael’s forehead. For a moment, he is eleven years old again, lying in the sick room, hovering between life and death. He sees them both in his minds eye, like two flavors of Italian ice that it was impossible to choose between.

The moment Michael remembers where he actually is, who is, and how he got here, he decides on the death flavour.

“Let me die…” he whispers to the haloed face of Miriam Meade as it looms above him.

“Enough dramatics, Michael,” his aunt chides. “You are not dying. You have merely imbibed more alcohol than it takes to get the whole of Norwich foxed. O, and you’ve lain on some glass, and stabbed yourself a little. I do not suppose you remember that part.”

Michael cares nothing about what happened AFTER the dungeon. He cares only for the fact that he cut his own heart out of his chest and sent it away in a carriage to Lady Goode’s.

“Y/n….” he moans. “Y/n…”

“Seeing as you sent Miss. Y/n packing with her merry band of avenging-wenches, she is not likely to hear you wailing all the way here.”

“W-what have I done?” he asks no one particular.

“From what I understand,” says his aunt with the utmost patience, “you were very rude.”

Michael brings a hand to his throbbing head. He wants it to be undone. He wants to take back all of it. He bolts from the bed, surprised to find himself bathed, though not shaven. He shall have to purchase something very nice for Radcliffe for his pains, he thinks: an umbrella stand, or a Samurai sword.

“Radcliffe, bring me my clothes. I must go to her.”

“Very good, Sir.” Radcliffe shuffles out of the room as if nothing amiss ever happened or is happening now.

“Calm yourself, Michael.”

“I am calm, Aunt!”

He must go. Now. Leave. He must make haste. He thought that driving you away was the best course. Michael was mistaken. You must be brought back AT ONCE. With any luck you could be married by nightfall…

But what miracle could compel you to ever look at him again?

How can he hope for your forgiveness, after the infamous way he has treated you?

But how can he live without it?

Hell, he has discovered in the past twenty-four hours, is not a place of brimstone and pitchforks. It is not a clandestine meeting of aristocrats in Venetian masks. It is to live without you. It is knowing that you are lost to him forever. Every breath is a widening split in Michael’s chest. He sits on the bed and lays his head in his hands.

“You are an intelligent young man, when you apply yourself,” says his Aunt, as though she is adept at reading thoughts. “I am sure that you will think of something that will atone for behaving like the Devil’s own spawn.”

………………………………

A day and a half after the ordeal in Michael’s dungeon, you stare through one of Cordelia’s windows at the world and its shapes. The lawn is neat, the grass shorn like a man’s hair beneath a wig of old, so different from the wilding heather of the moors. The sky is the incorrigible colour of robin’s eggs, with a few cotton-like clouds. You remind yourself that the afternoon is not beautiful out of malice.

Gradually, the parlour fills with orange beams, and you cannot help thinking that it was on precisely such an hour that you arrived at Langdon Manor days ago, vibrating with anticipation…

This, you are finding, is not the nullifying pain you felt when your father left the earth. It ebbs, this pain. It has moods. Sometimes it is angry; sometimes catatonic. It is nourished by the pleasantness of Lady Cordelia’s home; by sympathetic glances and hushed tones, by memories jumping out in ambush when you look at formerly un-dangerous things, like Persian carpets, the colour blue, or rope. You have never been more aware of time moving. It is audible, like silk whispering past in a ballroom, leaving you behind.

You try not to think of the dungeon. But when you close your eyes, it is there. You see John Henry Goode’s wizened face staring from between the bars of a cage. You smell rot. You hear the sound of your beloved naming you ‘whore’. You recall Michael’s claims that he seduced you for sport. But then, you remember the sea wind rustling willow branches; you remember standing between a hearth’s heat and crystalline eyes pricked with widening disks of black, being pronounced “the most beautiful woman I have ever seen”. You remember the bed with ebony serpents. You remember the moment in the book lined room in London, when Michael’s lips fell upon yours for the first time, and the universe was drained of all its unhappiness. You remember the feeling of bark scraping your back as Michael held you amid the tall hemlocks.

Even in the moments he was breaking your heart, you were aware of the gift you were given. Love. Yours, eternal; his, a sun that has dropped into the western horizon. The sun may be gone, you think, but its brilliance lingers. The sky blushes in the place of its former residence. The evening is full of its blood. And though night is looming in from the east, you will not surrender the remnants of glow.

The only consolation there can ever be- if it is possible to apply such a notion as ‘consolation’ to grief such as this- is that you, at least, have not much to regret. You abandoned yourself. You forsook reason. You entered love’s wild dominion without armor or weapon. Your heart is a loadstone, but your conscience is light. It is Michael who has been the coward; who has denied you both the chance of happiness.

If only he told you!

You think of all the times when maybe- JUST MAYBE- Michael was on the cusp of telling you about John Henry. He was wont to speak of his corrupt nature, and of ‘evil acts’ he had committed. But it was never with specificity. You told yourself, at the time, that he could not quite bring himself to pierce all of your illusions about him. That was fine with you. You did not wish to push. It is, after all, a far more terrifying act than any bedroom game to lay one’s life open to the scrutiny of another. To be utterly truthful is the greatest intimacy that two people can share. No wonder Michael barred you from it.

You consider what your reaction might have been. Horror, of course. Who would not be horrified? But whatever ugliness there has been in his life would have its origins.

Now loving him as you do feels a little like betrayal to the Coven, to John Henry, and, perhaps, to human decency itself. You have always laboured under the implicit assumption that, were you ever to find a man you loved enough to marry, he would not be someone who tortured good men.

The sound of the door is nearly muffled by this thought. You look away from the window to see Coco Vanderbilt standing at the white paneled doors of the parlour like a spooked doe, if a doe were in the habit of wearing lavender muslin.

“Might I sit with you a little while?” she asks so delicately that it makes you want to cry afresh. “We need not say a word to one other,” she quickly adds. “I should simply like to sit with you.”

You nod.

Your cousin crosses the room in the manner one may rightly expect of a woman trained from birth to flitter.

“You look pale,” she announces, then shakes her head and says more decidedly, “Gray. You look gray actually. It would be a flattering colour, were you a ghoul,” she adds.

You are grateful for the levity. You are grateful for Coco.

“Yes,” you agree. The word sounds like a toad’s croak.

It is only when Coco is seated beside you on the Pompadour-pink settee that you realize she is holding a bowl of hot stew.

“Sweeting,” she says when you meet her eyes, “it would be a great boon to me if you ate. It has been more than a day.”  

Food: you have not considered it, to be honest.

Before you can argue, Coco takes the silver, shell-shaped handle of the spoon in hand and scoops some stew. With insistence, but no great fanfare, she brings it to your lips. You open without question, and a stream of hot, savoury liquid is delivered to your mouth. You swallow. It is followed by another helping.

“Thank you,” says Coco softly, as if she is not the one who ought to be thanked. Sweeping an errant strand of hair behind your ear, she asks, “Isn’t that tasty?”

If it were sawdust, you probably would not be able to tell. But you nod.

Minutes pass, thus. You are fed, like an infant, to Coco’s satisfaction.

After a dozen spoonfuls, you feel equal to bring up the subject of your disgrace.

“Coco,” you say, dabbing at your mouth with a kerchief and looking down at the smooth, lavender of her lap. “It is my duty to say- to promise, upon whatever honour is left to me, that should my… impropriety ever become known to the world, I-I would leave your parents home- and protection- at once. BEFORE that, if need be. I would not stay tarnish your reputation, or that of your mother and father.”

You hear a snort.

You look up to see Coco bite back a smile. “Is that so, cousin?” she says. “And I suppose it was you, ON YOUR OWN, who elected to sneak into the Brimstone Revel? And you, ALONE, who forfeited your virtue to a man of ill repute?”

“Coco…” you say with a sigh, “you know very well that wrongdoing only exists in our stratum of society if it is REPORTED…”

“And what makes you think that your ‘impropriety’ will be reported?” she demands, rising to her fullest energy. “The Duke-who-shall-not-be-named pledged never to tell anyone of it. And though HIS word isn’t worth a farthing, you can be certain that Aunt Cordelia will hold him to it, or there will be more than hell to pay.”

You do not truly believe that Michael intends to commit this final, most public of betrayals. But there are other ways the truth may out. Isabella Darwood, for one, might take the opportunity of Michael’s newfound indifference to you to exact vengeance. She has sunk the reputations of enough debutantes in her day to open a house for wayward females, if stories are true. A member of Michael’s household in London or Yorkshire could slip word of your scandalous liaisons to a baker or a laundress or the chambermaid of a neighboring household. That is all it would take.

Or.

Most alarmingly.

You may find yourself with child.

Whether or not this is the case, you must make provisions now for whatever terrifying future lies in wait. And it helps a little, to be pragmatic and practical about such straits, instead of wallowing in your own wretchedness. Most women of your station who find themselves in the family-way with no husband to speak of retreat to the country for the length of their confinement. Two months, maybe three, if you are lucky, would be as long as you could hope to conceal a pregnancy. After that, the risk of discovery will be too high. You know that Cordelia would never turn you away from her home. But in what precarious position would that leave her? Not to mention, recently-returned-from-the-dead-great-hope-of-a-Whig-politician John Henry Goode… Sheltering a ‘fallen woman’ would compromise their positions of leadership in society. It would open them to scrutiny. To compromise them, would be to compromise all your dreams of a better future.

No. You must remove yourself from England.

You could go to Scotland, perhaps. You imagine wild, damp, mountainous landscapes. That appeals to you well enough. They would certainly be remote enough for your purposes. You could pretend to be a widow. But you dread spending a cold, windy, pregnant Scottish winter alone. Also, they are not terribly fond of English aristocrats in Scotland, even ones as low on the rung as you.

You might go to Italy, to the land of Galileo and Tintoretto, and could serve as tutor to the children of some noble family. But who would wish their palazzo invaded by a squalling infant? And, unfortunately, who would deign to be tutored ‘by a woman’?  

America. There is always America. That is far enough for comfort. Or, perhaps, Canada. You could find a cottage in Canada among fur traders and Haudenosaunee…

What piffling nonsense, you think. How would you even afford boat passage across the Atlantic? And what if you are not sturdy enough, in your condition, to make the journey?

‘The telescope is still TECHNICALLY yours…’ a survivalist voice within you whispers. You could sell it and buy yourself the ticket. It would not be too shameless. Michael WANTS you far away from him.

But how could you bear it? It is one thing to never see Michael again, and quite another to breathe the air of another continent…

“Coco, you must listen,” you say. You take great effort to regulate your face and voice, not wishing to cause your sweet cousin any more trauma on your account than she has already borne over the past two days. “There is a possibility, a scant one, but a possibility nonetheless, that I may be carrying Lord Langdon’s child.”

It is Coco’s turn to turn the colour of cement. Her response is to draw herself up slowly and walk to the mantle, where Misty Day, in her infinite thoughtfulness, has discreetly left a glass and a decanter full of plum brandy. Coco pours herself a generous tipple and returns to the settee in silence. Not until she has downed the contents, does she venture to speak.  

“Surely a man, even one as amoral as the nameless-Duke would take pains to avoid hoisting illegitimate progeny upon his sworn enemy,” she whispers, as if picking up in the middle of a conversation.

It wounds, the phrase ‘sworn enemy’. It wounds more than you expect or care to acknowledge. You cannot blame Coco or anyone else in the Coven for thinking that Michael hates you, that he has always hated you, that he has trifled with you to enact some sick, vengeful fantasy. He has claimed as much in front of everyone. For all you know, he spoke truthfully. The thought of that wounds even deeper. And wishing, with all of your being, to deny the extremity of that wound, you speak the following:

“Leo Langdon is said to have sired more illegitimate children than can be counted on four hands. Who is to say that Michael is any different? Woe to any fool of a woman who could ever think otherwise- o wait, that is me…”

Tears prick your eyes. You hate your own bitterness. You hate your desperation.

“You thought he loved you,” says Coco sympathetically. “That does not make you a fool.”

You could think of many arguments to the contrary.

“I might not be pregnant,” you say, “It was only at the end, after he proposed to me that he….” You let the unsavoury sentence die in your mouth. You will not. You will NOT commit the indignity of describing, to a gently bred, almost-virgin, the ways in which Michael did not take precautions against breeding.

Coco shakes her head. “I cannot understand it,” she says, as though contemplating one of history’s greatest enigmas. “Why would the Duke-who-I-shall-not-name go so far as to propose marriage?”

You shrug as if you cannot be bothered to contemplate it, as though the question does not send a shiver of despair through your being.

“If only I could understand it!” Coco insists.  

Memories bloom, vivid as hothouse flowers in your mind. Michael trembled when he asked, taut as a bow string with need. ‘Please marry me, chit. I think I shall die otherwise.’

It seemed real.

It has to have been.

O Michael.

NO.

You must not think like this. You are no longer a child. You are a woman. You may even be an expectant mother.

“What use can there be in attempting to understand the actions and motivations of someone who is hell bent on hurting us,” you say evenly. “I regret deeply that my own weaknesses endangered the Coven. Of all the unfortunate consequences of my actions, it is that for which I will never forgive myself, Coco.”

Coco lays a firm hand on your shoulder. “Hush with that nonsense,” she says. “You were trying to protect us. You only agreed to the Duke’s scandalous proposition to save our reputations- especially mine. No one can hold anything against you, sweeting. Least of all that.”

“B-but…” You look away. “C-coco, as deeply as it shames me to admit this… I en-enjoyed the four nights I had with Michael. More than that… I fell in love with him…”

You do not attempt to stifle the tears that flow. Coco strokes your back in much the matter you imagine a mother would, if you had one.  

After a few minutes, you are wrung out of all tears, and Coco offers her pretty purple handkerchief. She does not mind when you blow your nose between the embroidered flowers, that is what friendship is. When, at last the cream coloured parlour is filled with true silence, Coco speaks.

“If what you say is the truth, then it is even sadder for him than it is for you.” She takes your sticky hand in her cool one. “For you will always be surrounded by love. And if you should bear a child, she or he, too, will be surrounded by it- let us wait until such a time as we are certain of its existence to make provisions for the happy event. Whereas the Duke will never be so lucky. He had his chance, and he squandered it.”

In the face of such overwhelming kindness, you have no recourse but to collapse into Coco’s waiting arms.

“Whatever shall I do, Coco?” you sob. “How am I to live without him?”

“There, there, my sweeting,” murmurs Coco into your hair. “The only thing for it is to get a dog. Dogs are so much less vexing than gentlemen, and more portable too!”

The words return you to yourself. You remember something that Madison mentioned on the last leg of your journey to Cordelia’s, while Coco was dozing on your shoulder.

“Listen to that snoring,” Madison said, rudely jabbing your sleeping cousin with the point of her boot. “Lord Chesterton does not know what he is walking into…”

This led, naturally, to the Coven telling you about the moment cupid skewered Coco and Chesterton with one arrow like a human shishkabob.

“How wonderful,” you said. And even in the midst of your own misery, you meant it. You still do. Love is grand. For some.  

“Tell me about Lord Chesterton,” you ask Coco, extricating yourself from her embrace and plastering on your bravest smile. “I have always liked him you know. He is such a good dancer. And very dapper. Tell me what he most admires about you…”

…………………………………..

At the moment that Coco is walking you through her rigorous mental catalogue of Lord Chesterton’s cravats, Cordelia and John Henry are discussing the interesting piece of mail that was delivered to their home a little after dinner hour.

 

‘To Whom It Most Concerns,

It is my wish to extend an invitation to all members of the so called ‘Coven’, as well as Lord John Henry Goode, and Mr. Thomas Gallant, to a meeting of the Brimstone Society set to occur at midnight at Darkholme Abbey.   

The password is ‘Noctem’.

Regards,

The Duke of Langdon’

 

“Well, Cordelia, the truth has out now, and a brave new world of alliances stretches before us.”

Cordelia glares at John Henry in disbelief. “I am glad that you are chipper about it. But it also troubles me slightly, seeing that it is you who has least cause to be chipper.”

“Perhaps I am chipper to be alive.”

“Well that is admirable. I know that we have come out of all this relatively lucky but… One of my girls was tampered with. I keep remembering little details which suddenly fall in place in light of what we know. No wonder Lady Darwood was so monstrous to Y/n at Lady Snow’s function… It all makes sense now. The whole, vile lot of it.” She looks up at John Henry seriously. “Do you suppose the woman means to do her harm?”

“Darwood? No. Ms. Y/n need not worry on that quarter,” says John Henry with greater authority than is, perhaps, warranted. “Lady Darwood is, aside from everything else, a reasonably intelligent woman. I doubt that she would quarrel with her bread and butter.”

“IS Langdon her bread and butter?” questions Cordelia. “If it happens that he is not, she can have no scruples about crossing a perceived rival.”

“Perhaps we should attend the revel tonight and find out for ourselves.”

Cordelia narrows her eyes at her husband. “You know something that I do not.”

John Henry blinks. “Do I?”

“Sooner or later, you will tell me all that that diary contained.”

“Will I?”

“You’ll tell Thomas, and he’ll tell me.”

“Then, I won’t tell Thomas.”   

Before Cordelia can offer a rejoinder, Stevens, their butler, enters the room.

“There is a man calling, your graces. I have told him that you are not receiving visitors, but he mentioned Lord Goode by name.”

“A caller who is aware of my return?” says John Henry, meeting his wife’s gaze.

“That can only be one person,” says Cordelia, perceptibly making herself taller.

“Langdon…”

“Yes,” says Stevens. “And he refuses to vacate the premises until I have consulted your graces directly.”

“Tell him that we are not to be disturbed,” says Cordelia.

“No,” says John Henry, halting the butler. He turns to her. “Cordelia, it would be prudent to hear him out.”

“Prudent? I will not suffer that creature under my roof! Not after what he has done to you, and Y/n.”

“Personal animosities aside, my dear, he is an exceedingly powerful man. Arguably the MOST powerful. Whether or not it makes your skin crawl to see him- his benevolence, if you will, means our survival.”

A panorama of emotions crosses Cordelia’s face.

“See him in, Stevens,” she says finally. “Let us hear what the devil has to say.” Then, when Stevens has made his exit, she catches John Henry by the arm and asks, “Can you manage it John Henry, seeing him again?”

“What a silly question, dear. I must.”

………………..

Michael’s blood thrums in his ears as he follows the butler through Goode Manor. For all that it technically belongs of John Henry, the house is a feminine haven. Everything therein is white, rose or cream. Every doorway and fireplace is flanked or held aloft by caryatids, and every surface littered with Sèvres porcelain. On the walls there are adoring neoclassical paintings depicting Medea, Hippolyta and Medusa. Even the carpets are blonde (which only serves to heighten focus on the few spots where a tiny dog has seen fit to leave its tiny droppings). Michael has never felt more like an enemy breeching a sanctum- and that is saying much.

He barely hears his own title as he is announced.

“The Duke of Langdon,” Stevens says, leading him into a den of white marble.

The lady of the house does not rise to greet him, nor should she, admittedly. She is dressed in a blood red evening gown that makes her rather resemble a carnivorous flower, or a slash of blood against the jasmine hues of her drawing room.

Lord Goode, however, does rise, as if to prove that he can. Michael grimaces to see how thin he is. As punishment, he forces himself to look. ‘Yes,’ he thinks, ‘it is I who have done that.’

“Can I take your coat, Sir?” the butler inquires.

“No need, Stevens,” Lady Cordelia answers for him. “Lord Langdon will not be staying long.”

“It is best,” says Lord Goode, “that you do not. If Thomas finds out that you here, he will separate your teeth from your head. Fair warning.”

“Duly noted,” says Michael.

He knows that the Goodes, for all their posturing, are terrified of him. Rightfully. Michael has never conducted himself in any way that might suggest to them that he is a human being. Everything betwixt their factions has been war. Only now, when they hold the keys to something he needs desperately, is he willing to evince humility. Self hatred fills him like a cold wind from within, blowing in the area where, in others, there resides a heart. For a moment, he contemplates the futility of his task. Why would they ally with him, after he has proven himself to be without conscience or honour? ‘Y/n is in this house…’ he thinks, unbearably. You are here, and he cannot reach you. Michael may as well have trodden a slime trail into Goode Manor, all in pursuit of something impossible.

“What have you come here for, Lord Langdon?” asks Lady Cordelia impatiently.

“Did you receive your invitations to the Brimstone Revel this evening?” he asks. A stupid question, he thinks too late.

“We did,” the Duchess replies. “How courteous of you to invite us. However, seeing as it is undoubtedly a trap, we must decline.”

Michael tries, HE REALLY TRIES to be civil, but he cannot help scoffing at her. “O please, Lady Goode, if I wanted to ‘trap’ you and your petticoat brigade, I would have done so while you were all conveniently in my dungeon, two days ago. Seeing as I did NOT, you should go ahead and regard the invitation for what it is, genuine.”

The Goodes exchange pregnant glances.

It is Lord Goode’s turn to speak. “We will… consider your offer, my Lord.”

“I suggest you do more than consider,” says Michael, more haughtily than he intended. “This is a golden opportunity for you to make yourselves true movers of society.”

Lady Goode arches an eyebrow. “We already are.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Please. You set fashion trends and her husband barks at Tories until he is cobalt. I am talking about REAL influence, Lady Goode. Reforms. Prisons. The right of women to vote. Fair trade deals. Need I go on?”

The air around Lady Goode is practically perfumed with thought.

“And are we to believe,” questions Lord Goode, “that your orgy-loving pantaloon-brigade is just going to sit back while you turn them toward the great ‘enlightenment’?”

“Firstly, Lord Goode, my orgy-loving pantaloon brigade will not be given much of a choice in the matter. Secondly, they will barely raise a protest as long as their goblets are kept full or wine, their brains full of laudanum and their cocks wet. Those who do, will be eliminated or blackmailed, or both, depending on my mood.”

An annoyingly knowing smile creeps upon Lord Goode’s face. “I KNEW it! I knew it, Langdon. I knew you were edging toward this.”

The only person more annoyed than Michael appears to be the man’s wife. “What are you talking about, John Henry?”

“It is as I have always suspected, Langdon shares our views, though he is loathe to say it overtly. No one who has ever debated his aunt at one of Lady Mundine’s literary salons in Paris could doubt that her nephew is cut of the same ilk.”

Seizing his opportunity, Michael interjects, “It just so happens that Lady Meade is my most trusted General in the Brimstone Society.”

“Lady Meade? Is she not the one who stood by as you were held captive, John Henry?”

“Well, yes, Cordelia, but-”

“And you would break bread with these people over some rent boy’s cock at Brimstone Society revel?”

“I do not avail myself of rent boys, Cordelia, and you know that!”

“Consider my offer,” Michael repeats. “Ally with me and I will do everything in my power to further your ends.”

“Why would you?” snaps Lady Goode. “You hold volumes of blackmail material over our heads. It would not be an ‘alliance’. We would merely be your vassals, like all the rest of the aristocracy, and most politicians."

“You’d be in good company,” says Michael with a shrug.

“That is very debatable,” Lady Goode says, with a regal turn of her profile.

In that moment Michael understands why people follow her. She stands up to bullies, even when the odds are insurmountable. Bullies, he thinks, like him.

He considers his next move carefully.

“You would not be my vassal, Lady Goode,” he says solemnly. “You say that I hold ‘volumes of blackmail material’ over your head, but it has only ever been one letter. Michael opens his velvet lined valise and produces said letter. Wordlessly, he offers it to Lady Goode. She takes it. Her eyes widen as she recognizes the hand that scrawled it.

“I see by your expression that you recognize the handwriting, Lady Goode, if, indeed, it can be called ‘handwriting’, caveman etchings would seem a more appropriate description.”

For a moment, Lady Goode’s mask of hauteur falls. The hand holding the letter trembles almost imperceptibly. “How did you get this?”

“Like so many of my gifts, it was bequeathed to me by my father.”

“How many others like this do you have?” demands Lady Goode.

“None,” Michael says. “I told you. That is the last. I assume that every other letter your beloved Miss Day wrote to you is either burned, or safe in some secret box that only you know of. Keep it that way, my Lady.”

“How can I know that you are telling the truth?” she asks.

“I suppose you can’t.”

Michael has had the letter in his vault for so long and read it over so many times that he knows its contents by heart. He could recite it, but won’t, because he knows that would probably make Lady Goode run him through with a sword. ‘To mi sueet anjel, Cordelia’, how the silly, misspelled words have haunted Michael! He contemplated Ms. Day and Lady Goode for a long time. It was improbable and miraculous to him that their love had weathered the world. It was like being told that witches, or unicorns were real. He did not know it then, but Miss Day’s letter had primed Michael for your existence. He finds himself hoping, absurdly, that Lady Goode will not burn it.

“For the record, Lady Goode,” he says dispassionately, “I never intended to use that letter against you. Not once. Not even now, when you hold sway over the only thing in the world that matters to me.”

John Henry smiles knowingly. “Well, in a way, Langdon, ARE using it, by NOT using it. I think I know what you are up to…”

Lady Goode regards her legal spouse as though she is considering having him shipped off to bedlam. “Why do you talk in riddles, John Henry?” she asks. “And why, in god’s name are you smirking?”

“I am not smirking, Cordelia. I am smiling mysteriously. There is a difference.”

Michael knows that he can win over John Henry. He already has, most probably. For all that he has suffered in the dungeon, the man is a born politician; a pragmatist and a survivalist. His wife is purer of heart, and harder of head.

“Lord Langdon hopes that we will find it in our forgiving hearts to grant our blessings to a union between him and Ms. Y/n,” says Lord Goode, as though Michael were not in the room.

“A union between the man who kidnapped and tortured my husband and the woman he blackmailed, compromised, slandered and insulted?” demands the Duchess. At least she has the good taste not to laugh. “How is a sane person meant to respond to such a proposition?”

“Let me be as clear as I know how to be,” says Michael. “I do not hold out any hopes for such a union. I wish only to make amends to Y/n and ensure that she is cared for and delivered from any infamy that might befall her.”

“Any ‘infamy’ that might befall her will be your fault, Lord Langdon.”

“I know that,” Michael grates. “I would speak to her, or at very least, give her a package. It contains among other things, a letter, begging forgiveness.”

Lady Goode glares at him as though he were an accumulation of dirt on the sole of her dainty shoe. “A package?” she repeats. “A PACKAGE? You have already given her your disgusting PACKAGE, you worm. She will have nothing more to do with you.”

From the corner of his eye, Michael notices John Henry Goode smiling as though he is beholding the most diverting spectacle since Chinese fireworks went off at Vauxhall Gardens.

“I beg you, my Lady, “says Michael. “If I do not see Miss Y/n tonight, you know that I shall find some other way of reaching her. But let it be tonight. I cannot breathe another moment with her believing I do not love her.”

The silences Lady Goode. She rises from her seat and begins to pace the room. Michael can tell that she is considering.

“I am in dilemma Lord Langdon,” she says at last. “You have offended everything that I hold dear in this world. You have crossed the threshold of my home. And yet I have not killed you. Women are too often described as ‘creatures of passion and emotion’. But I can play chess with you. I can be rational.” She looks him up and down, then frowns. “But I am a Duchess, Lord Langdon, not a rookery bawd. What I will NOT do is pimp one of my girls, not to ‘the most powerful man in England’, not to anyone.”  

“I am not asking you to.”

“You say that as though you have not used Y/n as such already.”

All right. That hits its mark.

“I admit,” says Michael, hating the desperation in his own voice. “I was the worst of libertines. I treated Y/n abominably. There is only one way I can think of to restore the power and dignity owed her. Will you not let me do that?”

Lord Goode turns to his wife. “If the package Lord Langdon intends to leave in Ms. Y/n’s possession is what I think it is, I must urge you to consider his request. If you cannot bring yourself to trust him, trust me instead.”

“Damn you for a politician, John Henry,” his wife replies.

“There are worse things to be, Cordelia. A hypocrite, for one.”

Lady Goode looks squarely at Michael. “My husband is implying that I am a ‘hypocrite’ if I do not allow Y/n to make her own decisions where you are in question.” She shocks him by adding, “I do hate it when he is right.”

It is not precisely jubilation, Michael feels. And not precisely relief either. But it is something. A good thing.

“You will leave your gift for Y/n with us,” the Duchess informs him. “When she receives it, she will decide for herself whether she wishes to suffer the sight of you again.”

The part of Michael that is still, and will always be, the Duke of Langdon, wishes to snap these two insignificant people in half and steal into whatever room they have stowed you in. Who are THEY, he thinks, to stand in his way? Who are THEY to contradict his desires? But now, and, he suspects, for the remainder of his natural life, your needs eclipse his in importance. You need him to eat his pride now, and let these miniscule people feel important. He must try to make amends.

So, Michael swallows his disappointment.  “Thank you, my Lady.”

“You have hurt Ms. Y/n rather enough, Lord Langdon,” says Lord Goode, threat deliberately lacing his tone. “Should you hurt her again, I will have no recourse but to kill you.”

“Not if I kill him first,” says Lady Goode. “I believe I should reserve that honour for myself, husband. You might be compelled to do it in the gentlemanly fashion, in a ‘field of honour’, whereas I shall kill him slowly, with the poetry he so dearly deserves.”

‘Perhaps she IS a witch’ Michael thinks.

“If I hurt Ms. Y/n again,” he tells Lady Goode, “I will administer the death blow myself, as there will be no cause to live.”

“How lovely that we have managed to end this discussion on a point that we can agree upon,” says Lady Goode, turning to escort the Duke of Langdon out of her home,

…………………….

Michael drives from Goode Manor directly to Darkholme Abbey. He did not think it was possible to feel more uneasy now than when he arrived at the Goodes’. He supposes it is only the terror of knowing that his fate is out of his hands now, well and truly.

In the meantime, there is a revel to prepare for, one, which he hopes, shall be very different from any before it.

…………………………………….

Coco is about to launch into her second rhapsody about the ‘very distinguished looking’ mole on Lord Chesterton’s left cheek when there is a knock at the door of the parlour.

“May I come in please?”

If the voice belonged to anyone but John Henry Goode, who has lately been incarcerated, Coco would have no qualms about refusing entry and continuing her treatise on moles.

“Is it all right if he comes in?” your cousin mouths.

“Of course,” you say, straightening yourself out as best as you can. Your eyes and nose are no doubt swollen and ruddy from crying, but Lord Goode and you have seen each other worse for wear.

“Come in Uncle!” says Coco. “Remind me to finish telling you about this later,” she adds tacitly as the tall man enters.

It is with relief that you note the colour and vitality restored to Lord Goode’s thinned out features. Given another fortnight, and some fussing from Mr. Gallant and Cordelia, he will, no doubt, be returned to his former glory.

It is a testament to Lord Goode’s talents as a politician that he manages to coax Coco out of the room, and make it seem like her own idea. “Will you be leaving us, Ms. Vanderbilt? Ah, I suppose you must, Madison being in need of your help in the pink parlour.”

Coco gives you a squeeze of the hand before ambling out of the room at the behest of her legal uncle. Before she closes the door behind her, you hear the sound of her tiny dog yapping. It almost buoys your heart.

“What I have to say shall not take long in saying, Ms. Y/n,” says Lord Goode, as he takes a seat beside you in the spot still warm from Coco. “Do I have your permission to speak plainly, though we have not been acquainted long?”

You nod. “You have my ear, Sir. I hope you shall always speak freely, and that we may become friends.” You mean it truthfully. In any other household in England, it would be unusual for a young, unmarried lady to be in a room with a man, unchaperoned, wherever his true interests lay. But this, thankfully, is unlike any household anywhere. You meet his eye, hoping with all of your might that the Duke of Devonshire does not hold it against you that you have been making merry in his houses for months, while he has been rotting underground.

“Thank you, Ms. Y/n.”

He reaches into the lining of his jacket, which is markedly roomy on him, and produces a silver cigarette case. With the greatest of elegance, he takes a cigarette, and lights it with a match retrieved from the opposite breast. He inhales, then puffs the smoke out of his nostrils like dragon.

“It strikes me that you may be pregnant, Ms. Y/n,” says Lord Goode. Plumes of tobacco spew from his mouth with the words. Before you can speak, he adds, “No, my dear, I have not been listening at the door. How boorish that would be! Though I can only assume that you have broached the subject with your cousin.”

“H-how-”

“I was a lawyer before I was a diplomat,” he answers before you can finish the question. “Second sons who have no expectation of inheriting the estate must make their way in the approved of professions. I was a second son. By the time my brother died, and I was proclaimed the next Duke of Devonshire, I already had years of experience reading people like they were books. I am clever, Ms. Y/n. Not clever enough to avoid being captured by your clever lover, but, still, clever.”

He says that without accusation, for which, you suppose, you are grateful.

“I can often sense the things that people wish to conceal in themselves,” he says. “Perhaps because I have much to conceal myself. You know, that old chestnut…”

“I do not know if I am with child or not,” you say, with ‘plainness’ to match his own. “I do not know how likely it is… But it is not an impossibility.”

The Duke of Devonshire nods in a business-like way. “Should you be, and should you choose never to see the blackguard again, I promise you that you will be provided for. Cordelia and I- though she is too proud to admit it, feel ultimately responsible for the fate that has befallen you. Were you not involved with the Coven, you would not have found yourself in the jaws of Michael Langdon. My lover, Thomas Gallant, would be more than happy to enter a marriage of convenience with you, should the need arise. It would be a marriage in name only, of course, as it is between Cordelia and myself, who have never been more than the best of friends. You would pass your child off as Gallants. We would live together in this house. It would not be too terrible, I do not think.”

Your jaw falls.

“Well, Ms. Y/n?”

You clear your throat. “Though I thank you, sincerely, I must decline your offer,” you say. “I am responsible for my own decisions, my Lord.”

Beneath your astonishment, you recognize that it IS, it truly IS a profoundly generous proposition- if slightly patronizing. But whether or not are pregnant, the notion of exchanging marriage vows with anyone other than Michael offends your soul.

“Were you not blackmailed into the Duke’s bed,” asks Lord Goode.

“I do not deny the barbarous tactics used, Sir. Nor can I defend them. Still, I agreed. I thank you again for your offer, my Lord. But I entered the Duke of Langdon’s home of my own accord, and later,” you force yourself to add, though heat rushes to your face, “I entered his bed of my own accord. I shall face the consequences. I see not why Mr. Gallant should be punished for my actions.”

“I thought you would say that.” Lord Goode smiles. “In truth, I was certain you would. Which made proposing it easier. I am as selfish a man as any, Miss Y/n; I would not see my Thomas bound to another, even if it be only in the eyes of the law.” He pauses meaningfully. “And I imagine, the Duke of Langdon feels the same way about you.”

An ill lump forms in your throat.

“Forgive me, my Lord, but you are mistaken. The Duke hates me. Violently.”

 He laughs. “Cordelia told me that you are something of a wit.”

“But I have not said anything remotely funny, my Lord.”

“You said that the Duke of Langdon ‘hates’ you, ‘violently’. My dear, that is patently absurd.” Lord Goode leans back against the settee and pins you with his gaze. “Perhaps you will credit me with having SOME experience of the man of whom we are speaking, seeing as I had only him and his poe-faced aunt for company for eight months of my life.” He says this with a trace of irony. Barely two days ago he looked like a man near death. “Michael Langdon may be a scoundrel, he may be a brute, he may even be the devil; but he loves you, Miss Y/n. Of that I am sure.”

You are weary and not in sorts. You have cried too much over the two days and do not wish to do so again. You want what he is saying to be true. You want it more badly than you have ever wanted anything. But you are uncertain. Love, hate, what can you know of it? They have become as sounds to you, mere puffs of tobacco smoke.  

“Even in a universe in which that were true,” you say, “what sort of libertine gives herself to a man who imprisoned and tortured a friend? How could I be so faithless?”

Lord Goode shrugs. “‘We that are true lovers run into strange capers’, is that not what the poets say?”

“When my father died, I came to London with nothing. The Coven gave me my life, gave me confederacy, gave me a higher purpose in the world.”

“And should you choose to wed yourself to a lying, murdering weasel, they will remain your Coven.”

“Will they?” you question. “Could they ever forgive me?”

“If you killed someone, I imagine Coco Vanderbilt would point you to the direction of the ocean without asking questions. It is the same for all of them, more or less. Even Madison, though she is always doing her best impression of a log petrifying. When those girls believed you were being held by force by the evil Lord Langdon, they rushed into danger without question. They jumped into a wobbly carriage in the middle of a storm, heedless of their bodily safety or reputations. They would walk through fire for you. As you would for each of them, I am sure.”

You smile at him, tearfully, gratefully. “But when I think of all you suffered at Michael’s hands…”

Lord Goode looks sombre for a moment. “Yes. I will not deny that Langdon attempted to break my spirit. But look how it has unfolded? I sit here, unbroken, in the bosom of my chosen family, while he contemplates whether or not clawing his own heart out of his chest might be a step toward obtaining your forgiveness. The wretch.”

You wipe your eyes. “He need not do that,” you murmur into your lap. “He has it already. That is the horrible thing. I should not forgive him. Why do I long for him, Lord Goode? Ought I not to know better?”

For a long time, Lord Goode seems to give this question his honest consideration. He does not smoke, but cradles his dangling cigarette in his fingers, like a diminishing trinket.

“Life is more hospitable to those who bear no great expectations of love,” he says at last. “Or joy, for that matter.” Lord Goode stretches his arm to the side table and crushes the end of his cigarette into a porcelain dish painted with the image of a handsome, naked angel. “I always knew that was the truth. Especially for me. Given… the circumstances. I expected nothing. I wanted only to survive boyhood. Then, I wanted only to survive youth. And then I met someone. And we were lost in amazement. We never wished to be out of the other’s sight. We both believed it a miracle that the other existed. And at the same time, we regarded ourselves as halves of a single self.” He looks into the distance as if at some fixed point. For a moment, the past is alive to him, realer than the now. You do not move, barely even breathe, out of fear of breaking the spell. Then, the reverie ends, and John Henry turns back to you wearing one of those smiles that you thought lived only in renaissance paintings.

“I am not speaking of Thomas,” he says. “Though he is my great love, he was not my first love.”

You nod your understanding and wonder why you are being initiated into what feels like a very intimate secret.

As if he has read your mind, Lord Goode goes on.

“His name was Tristan Mott. You would know of him, and his reputation, if you travelled in less reputable circles. After we separated, our lives diverged like estuaries carving the land in opposite directions. He became one of Leo Langdon’s most notorious generals in the Brimstone Society.”

“O.”

Lord Goode nods. “Mott did terrible things. His job was to hurt people. He was a man deeply compromised. And yet, he performed a redeeming act before he died.”

In your mind, the last of the puzzle pieces slots into place. “That is how you acquired Leo Langdon’s diary…” you whisper.

“Very good, Ms. Y/n. Yes. Though Mott lived in the shadow of evil, though he was, arguably, an ‘evil’ man himself, he wished to for Leo Langdon to be brought down. He wanted the carnage to end. So he mailed the diary to the only person in the world he could trust with it: me. Shortly after, Leo died, and Michael arrived from Paris to assume his title. I gave it a chance. I waited. I hoped. I think I was right. For all his many faults, Michael is different from his father. Perhaps, with the guidance of one such as yourself, he may prove himself redeemable. Even, dare I say, beneficial. But the leap of faith is yours to make, and yours alone.”

Barely have you absorbed what Lord Goode has said, before he is back on his feet and ringing for his butler.

In moments, Stevens arrives at the door. He gives the Duke of Devonshire a book, roughly the size of a novel, bound in cracked leather with a red sheen.  

Lord Goode closes the door and returns to his spot beside you.

“Lord Langdon was here this afternoon,” he says, in a tone soft with compassion.

 You gape at him. “WHAT!?”

“He left something for you.” He indicates the book in his hands. “I believe that there is a letter for you inside. Perhaps you should read that first.”

You stare at the leather binding in incredulity.

“Cordelia and I would have been awfully clever to keep this for ourselves, you know. If I had opened it in front of her, she never would have let you have it. But it is yours by right.”

With trembling hands, you accept the object. It is colder and heavier than you expect.

“I will leave you now, Ms. Y/n, trusting that whatever course of action you take, it will be a wise one.”

“I do not know what I have ever done to merit your confidence, Lord Goode, but thank you.”

He bows his head and takes his leave.

Tucked inside the cover of the volume, just as Lord Goode said, there is a letter. It bears the scarlet seal of Langdon.

A knot squeezes your chest as you tear the envelope. The paper trembles as you read, tears staining the paper where Michael’s writing loops and curves.

‘Dearest One,

I know that I can never atone for the agony I have caused you. Know that I will live in torment for the things I said, the lies I hurled at you, in the vain hope of driving you away. I beg your forgiveness, though I deserve it not. I long for nothing more than to kiss your feet in supplication. I could not bear your hatred. I could not bear the thought of disappointing you, of having you see me for the monster that I am, and have ever been. So I did the worst thing possible.

If you never see me again, my thoughts will follow you forever, like a trail of musk, imperceptible to all; unwanted, heady and desperate.

Until the hour of my death, I shall dream of you and despise the morning. I shall beg for news of you everywhere I go, like a panhandler at a banquet. I will gaze upon you like a star whose light pierces eons. Far away as you are, you will be more real to me than the clothes I wear, and the air I breathe, and the things I touch that are not you.

Since childhood, every living creature to which I have dared attach my affections has been killed, mutilated, or otherwise torn from me. I give you this book, my father’s diary, not in an attempt to justify, but rather, to offer some explanation for my contemptible character. If it is too wretched, read it not. Do not pollute your eyes with the panorama of horror that was my life until the day I beheld you. It contains the parts of me I did not let you see. It contains the ugliest parts. It may shock you. It may make you hate me more. But I cannot live another day in hiding from you. You told me once that is was all right that I did not trust you, ‘yet’. You told me, with the confidence of one twice your years that you are patient, and would wear me down eventually. You have whittled me to nothing, sweet chit. I can withhold nothing from you, least of all my soul. It will fly to you, always, like a migrating bird, as though time and distance never existed.

I am sorry that I lied to you. I am sorry for taking your virtue. I am sorry for blackmailing you into my bed, for thinking you belonged there, for being willing to commit any evil to keep you in it. I am sorry for tormenting your friends. I am sorry that I professed not to care for you. The truth, as you probably know, is that I did not know what love was before I knew you. I had tasted pleasures of the flesh, but never the spirit. I thought I could buy you. I thought that five nights would be enough to purge the sickness. Soon, I found that making you unhappy made me unhappy- which, pathetic as it is, was a novel concept to me. I hated the air and the light and the days and nights when you were gone. I wished you by my side always. If only I could express to you how frightening that was. It was the kind of fear that devours people, pet. And I gave in to it like the cowardly thing I am.

But I have no fear now. I have lived through the worst fate possible, that of losing you.

And so, I am giving you this diary, which contains all of my secrets and crimes. With it, you could destroy me. You could send me to the gallows. Or you can hold it over my head and be the puppeteer of the Brimstone Society forever, and force me to do things like erect women’s universities and regulate the treatment of animals. You know, your sort of stuff. Blackmail me, darling, I beg you.

I have spoken to my solicitor and arranged to have a sizable portion of my wealth funneled to you under the guise of your ‘Aunt Lavinia passing recently’. Do you remember Aunt Lavinia? She has been good to us, has she not? The money is yours to do with as you wish, chit. And I imagine you shall use it in atrocious ways, like setting up hospitals for the poor, or training your beloved prison women to make a trade out of painting figurines or something else ghastly.

Whatever you do, chit, I am yours until the day I day. Know it and forgive me if it displeases you.

All of my love,

M.’

…………………….

You tremble all over long after you have put down Michael’s letter, after you have kissed the paper and ink, and clutched it to your heart as though your pores might absorb it.

And you tremble as you read his horrible father’s diary.

Michael is right. There are things inside it that shock you, that make you feel ill. Not out of repulsion for him- but out of compassion. You weep to read of the wasteland his Father made of his innocence. You weep for the horrors he endured.

What makes it worse, is that the story is written from the perspective of the man who perpetrated it; who ordered his own son thrashed for offering aid to servants; for rescuing a wounded animal, for asking about his mother, for holding another child’s hand.

Later, come stories of the violence and degradation Michael witnessed at Leo’s Brimstone Revels. There is an almost scientific detachment with which the late Duke describes his own son’s reactions to the proceedings. Through the pages, you can feel the fibres of Michael’s sanity stretching. And contrary to what he feared, you regard him as something of a hero. To have withstood all this, and escaped with his mind-his beautiful, perfect mind- in tact, is a wonder.

You gasp when you arrive at the sickening passages where, in detail both lurid and anatomical, Leo describes sexual encounters between Isabella Darwood and his son. The old man’s mistress, it would appear, dictated to him the full breadth of their activities. Leo played her for a fool as well, though, noting, in paragraphs, that he suspects ‘the incognita’ to be falling in love with Michael, or at least whatever twisted version of love can exist in such circumstances.  

There is more contained in the diary; much more. There are stories, with dates and evidence to damn half the ruling class. You do not go through it all, mostly just the parts that concern Michael, and, some rather disturbing passages about the Darwoods. Had you known all that the siblings were capable of, you would have feared them more.

By the time you put the book down, midnight has nearly come.

You walk through Goode Manor in a daze, finding none of your friends.

You return to your bedroom, ready to don a mantle and go out in search of Michael. To your surprise, Coco has slipped a note under your door.

It reads,

‘Don’t hate us, Sweeting! We have all gone to see your sweetheart at the Brimstone Revel without you!

I know! I know!

It all happened so suddenly. It turns out that your beau is looking to debut in a new ensemble cast for his secret, maybe evil, but maybe not evil, society! And we have all been invited. Except you, I suppose. I wonder why that is… I am sure whatever the reason, it is romantic. La, but I can hardly believe Aunt Cordelia is letting us go!

Because I am a GOOD COUSIN, and do not wish to be forgotten when you become the Duchess of Langdon, or the Queen of England, or whatever it is, I am leaving you this note, and a nice, not too harlot-y dress and one of those masks.

Hope to see you there! (and NOT my father this time!)

Love,

Coco'

The dress is black as pitch and the neckline, decidedly, harlot-y. You slip into it gratefully, remembering the last time you prepared for such an evening, in a moving carriage next to Coco. You carry the polished white mask under your cloak and instruct Stevens to order you a hackney.

On the front steps of the house, the night air is cool and alive. It smells of torches and moss and the promise of adventure. All you can think of is running into Michael’s arms. You do not even care if he is busy presiding over an orgy, you are going to do it.

The black coach arrives on the gravel faster than you imagined it would. Heady with excitement, you step forward. The driver bows and helps you in. Before your bottom has dropped into the seat, the vehicle is moving at an abnormal pace.

Something is dreadfully wrong, you realize.

You have made a grievous error.

Heart beating like a drum, you turn to your right to see the mean, pink face of Albion Darwood, cackling as you let out a scream.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and sorry once again for the delay, patient, beautiful, kind, readers! Thank you to everybody who has stuck with this story. I can’t believe it! I am so grateful! It has been a wild, and unpredictably-updating ride so far, and I thank you for your patience from the bottom of my heart. And thanks for making it worth writing. Mountains of love.  
> So, this chapter was written in two or three long sessions when I was able to cobble some time long enough to focus. Sorry if it feels sub par or rushed or hyper-dialoguey (cus, whoa, there is a lot of talking and sassing… and talking). And sorry to have left Y/n in such a predicament. How is she going to get out of this one? (spoilers, it WILL be ok, promise).  
> Gentleman Jackson was a regency era boxer. Fighting was very popular as a sport, and he was a celebrity of the era.  
> When Coco comes to comfort and feed soup to Y/n, she is wearing lavender, and the reader is called ‘gray’ har har har, like in the outpost.  
> Y/n compares the grass outside to ‘shorn hair, worn under a wig of old’. This refers to the wigs than men whore in the Georgian era, which would have been a generation or two back from the time this story is taking place. So no wigs here, just luscious Michael-locks.  
> Cordelia says that John Henry might be too classy, and kill Michael in a ‘field of honour’, which refers, a little tongue-in-cheek-ly to the common, though outlawed practice of duelling in the name of matters of ‘honour’. />  
> Y/n considers many options of where she might go IF she happens to discover she is pregnant. Canada, is one of them. She, admittedly dreamily, mentioned living amid ‘fur trappers and Haudenosaunee’. The Haudenosaunee, also known as Iroquois, are composed of Six Aboriginal Nations (Seneca, Cayuga, Oneida, Onondaga and Mohawk and Tuscarora) known as the Haudenosaunee Confederacy.  
> Misty Day’s letter, and Michael’s fascination with it, was first mentioned way back in chapter 3 of Duke of Hell. It struck me as the perfect ‘peace offering’ for him to give Cordelia. Who knows, it may have even inspired him to do a little love letter writing of his own:D  
> Vauxhall gardens were these famous pleasure gardens in London that you accessed with a boat and it was super fun and there was always exciting stuff going on there (and making out in bushes, if historical romance novels are to be believed).  
> ‘Noctem’ is Latin for ‘Night’. I wanted to make the password be some cheesy variation of ‘fifth night’, but how douchey would that be of Michael? Too douchey!  
> Smoking around a possibly pregnant reader, what can I say, I could not resist my own dumb version of an era-specific, MadMen style moment... or alluding to JHM’s bad habit from AHS.  
> Much like Dr. Dre, Coco will ‘show you where the ocean is’. (I am so sorry, everyone)  
> John Henry quotes Shakespeare, specifically, As You Like It:  
> We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.  
> Act II, scene 4, lines 53-56.  
> John Henry’s speech about Mott contains themes of platonic love. His comparing himself and Mott to ‘two halves of one self’ is classic Plato.  
> Hey, Oscar Wilde fans! I could not resist naming a rando thirsty character after Miss Cheavely, from ‘An Ideal Husband’. She is such an exquisite bitch, she is. I live for her.  
> ‘The School for Scandal’ is a famous comedy play written by Richard Brinsley Sheridan. It debuted on the London Stage on May 1777. Lady Meade and her thirsty friend, Mrs. Cheveley were planning to catch the revival in Drury Lane before they were interrupted by news of Michael’s epic melt down.  
> Being a Roman history buff, how could I NOT include a reference to Marcus Aurelius and the Marcomannic Wars in my AHS erotic fanfiction? Right? How could I NOT? (ugh, just the WORST….)  
> Aunt Lavinia, is the fake Aunt Michael invented for Y/n back in Chapter 8. RIP fake Aunt.  
> “Let me be as clear as I know how to be…” Who can resist an original Outpost Michael turn of phrase from the tv show?  
> I shall do my best to be hastier in the next update. Thank you so much for you kindness, encouragement and care.  
> All my love xo  
> ps. So I am thinking, maybe two of three chapters left? Maybe one of them is an epilogue... I am sorry if this changes!  
> pps. You guys really, REALLY are the best xo


	14. Chapter 14

“Now, now my good man, this is no time to be making enemies."

― Voltaire, on his deathbed in response to a priest asking him that he renounce Satan.

…………………………

Coco is drunk.

Later, she will blame this fact on the unseasonal chill of the evening, which pebbled her bosoms the moment she stepped out of the carriage. She will say that it was her ‘hell blasted half-mask’, which encouraged sips from the flask Queenie gifted her at Yuletide. She will even go so far as to blame Samuel Johnson, with whom her father once played a ruinous game of piquet in a London tavern, for preaching that: ‘claret is the liquor for boys; port, for men: but he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.’

She does not mean to be drunk, of course, but then she and the Coven arrive at the Brimstone Revel. The atmosphere is similar to what it was, weeks prior, when you yoked yourself to the perversions of a certain Duke for the good of your friends- and Coco’s nerves quickly go the way of pheasants on a country estate: shot.

The Brimstone Society and their attending whores arrive en masse. Horses and carriages litter the road. It feels like a pilgrimage, thinks Coco, taking a fifth, heroic gulp of brandy. Except usually, pilgrimages do not end in orgies.

Darkholme Abbey is a place of crumbled beauty. Coco can tell that the Coven are fascinated as they join the flow of figures. Only a few walls remain standing, salt-white and spotted with lichen. The essence of orange flowers and frankincense floats in on the wind. Beneath her feet, damp grass wreathes through dust and chunks of sculpture. Then, out of nowhere, an opening in the earth appears, as though it might have been concealed there all along by some ancient magic. Even Aunt Cordelia hesitates a little in her path as they descend like offerings to Hades.

As often happens when Langdon property is concerned, darkness gives way to an underground lair.

Coco’s brandy-addled brain is not prepared for the tunnels and gilt covered rooms. Everywhere, it is warm and bright, as though the earth is nursing a star in its belly. Coco wonders which Langdon Duke ordered this built. It speaks to the power and secrecy of the Brimstone Society. It speaks to the ability to do anything, move anything, have anything.

“The password is ‘Noctem’. The password is ‘Noctem’. The password is ‘Noctem’,” Coco whispers to herself. That is where you and she went wrong last time, she supposes- not knowing the password.

“Noctem,” she tells the warden at the end of the central corridor.

He grunts his approval and allows access to what turns out to be more of a cave or a grotto than a room. Once everyone is contained, the chanting begins.

Lud. The chanting again.

Coco holds Zoe’s perspiring hand in her own.

“What are they saying?” she whispers into her hood.

“ ‘Chao ab Ordo’,” answers Zoe, her voice muffled by porcelain. “It means, ‘Chaos from Order.’”

Coco swallows. Well, THAT bodes well, she thinks.

Not wishing to be separated from her girls in the crush; Cordelia has attached a peacock plume to her Volto mask. Coco makes sure to keep its blue in the periphery of her vision.

She casts her eyes about, from time to time, in hopes of recognizing one of the masked revellers. Soon enough, many of them will shed their disguises. For better or worse.

“When does everybody get naked?”

Coco recognizes the masked voice of Madison Montgomery in her ear.

“Later,” she whispers back, “after Lord Langdon has addressed his followers.”

Madison lets out a barely muffled groan. “OF COURSE, there has to be a speech…”

Contemplating impending nudity, Coco takes another sip from her flask.

The only good that will come of this, will be telling Lord Chesterton all about it.

She sighs.

That is what Coco likes most about him, aside from his famous rider’s shins; it is the gleam in his eye when she feeds him a morsel of gossip. Most men in her family are not like that; they are not fun. They are stodgy and cigar-smoking and talk only of races and parliament. Only Chesterton loves a good session of ‘character assessment’ as much as Coco.

“Do you think your father will suffer to wear his pantaloons this time, Coco?” asks Madison too loudly.

………….

Michael’s forefathers had in their minds the vision of ‘an inverted cathedral’ when they ordered the underworld beneath Darkholme Abbey built. To him, it has always resembled a crypt, rough hewn and unfinished, fit for giants to die in. At the northern-most end, carved high into the rockface, there is a mezzanine obscured by canopies of red silk. From this vantage point, Michael sits and watches the proceedings below. He can recognize every person in the swarm by their gait alone. It is one of the skills his father taught him; perhaps the only one for which he is unambiguously grateful. ‘Men imagine themselves to be impenetrable when they wear masks,’ Leo said. ‘A Langdon must know better.’  

Six members of the Coven have arrived, as well as their two male associates.

But you are not among their number.

Disappointment steeps Michael’s heart.

Well, what did he expect?

Astronomical have been his sins. There is no earthly force – certainly not a tear drenched letter! - that will turn your heart back to him. Michael tried not to hope that you would come. He realizes, now, how catastrophically he failed.

“Did Ms. Y/n not arrive with the Coven?” he demands of his valet as though the poe-faced man has the power to pluck you out of a hat.  

Radcliffe’s mouth thins. “Ms. Y/n did not arrive with her cohort, my Lord. Perhaps she has an ague.”

“An ague?” says Michael with a frown.

“Or some other malady, Sir,” the valet offers limply. “Perhaps of a female variety...”

Michael evinces no reaction.

“Would you like to go over the agenda again, my Lord?” asks Radcliffe.

“There is no need,” Michael snaps. “It’s all damned simple. First, we round up my father’s former generals. Then, to put it in my Aunt Meade’s words, I ‘banish them.’”

 “Just between us, Sir, killing would be preferable.”

“Yes,” agrees Michael. “But we must… modernize.”

He does not say that he is consciously refraining from murder as a tribute to you.

He does not say that- despite the extreme unlikelihood of ever being allowed to look upon your face again- he is trying to be the sort of man of whom you might think well; not the sort who ritualistically slaughters his enemies. (At least, not in PUBLIC. Maybe… later.)

“It might console you to know that humiliation will likely be worse than death for their ilk,” Michael tells his bloodthirsty valet,. “They have served their purposes, the passage of my power has been eased, and now I have finished with them. Wait until Albion Darwood hears that, Radcliffe. It will be better than gladiators. Speaking of, where the hell is he?”

“Lord Darwood has not arrived yet, My Lord.”

Michael glances at the snake adorned carriage clock on the wall. His stomach clenches as though by some instinct.

“Not arrived yet? It is half past midnight.”

Never, in more than a decade, has Albion Darwood absented himself from a Brimstone Revel.

“Perhaps it is the roads, Sir?”

“The roads are fine, Radcliffe. Everyone else made it.”

Except, you.

The dreadful realization falls upon Michael like a clapper striking a church bell. And, suddenly, everything in the world is spinning off its axes.  

“Ready my coach, Radcliffe,” Michael orders. “And bring the Coven and their associates to meet me outside by the ruins.”

A pause.

“Now, Sir?”

“Yes, NOW. Make haste!”

“But… the revel, Sir…”

“My Aunt Meade can see to it.”

“Your followers will not like-”

“Confound them, Radcliffe! Ready my coach before I gut you!”

“Very good Sir.”

……………….

The night obliges them with moonlight at least.

When Michael resurfaces, they are waiting, druid-like amid the ruins, the coven, the people against whom he has committed incalculable wrongs, yet for whose aid he must now beg.

Again.

Most of them have already pulled off their masks, their faces flushed and sweating. Gallant, Michael decides, is wearing the most murderous expression. Though Lady Goode’s is only marginally better.  

“What can you possibly have left to badger us with?” snaps Gallant. “Why did you invite us here?”

Beneath his crisp accent, Michael detects vestiges of cockney.

“Langdon means to mock us,” supplies Lady Goode, “after feeding us false hopes of an alliance.”

“I need your help,” says Michael, voice raw with urgency. “There is no time to go into explanations.”

Radcliffe elects the worst possible time to manifest at Michael’s side. His sallow cheeks pinken in the wind as the coven converge upon him.

“Ms. Y/n may have been kidnapped,” says Michael before the particulars of who pointed a pistol at whom earlier in the week can be mulled over.

“You were right, Cordelia,” snarls Gallant, “there is nothing beneath this man!”

But Lord Goode is not as quick as his lover to dismiss Michael’s claim.

“What gives you this impression, Lord Langdon?” he asks.

“She is not here,” says Michael impatiently.

The Goodes exchange looks.

“I saw no reason to burden Ms. Y/n with your invitation tonight, Lord Langdon,” Lord Goode explains. “Ms. Y/n is at our estate, erm… looking over that package you left in her possession. If she wishes to contact you, I am sure-”

“Actually…” says Coco Vanderbilt, stepping forward with a slight wobble. “I left a note for Y/n saying we were coming here. It did not seem right to mislead her.”

“That was a bottle-headed thing to do, Coco!” chides her aunt.

“I WAS ONLY-”

“Albion Darwood is not present downstairs,” says Michael. Everyone turns.  

Lady Goode’s sea coloured eyes widen. “Albion Darwood? Do you think-”

“I fear it, Madam,” says Michael in a tone that is so free of barb or sarcasm, that it unsettles the woman to her core. “I would owe you a great debt if you went back to your house and checked for Y/n, my Lady. Please.”

“Very well,” Lady Goode says, looking at him as though he has sprouted horns. “Misty, come with me.”

The two women hurry to one of the coaches lining the road.

“I shall make my own inquires”, says Lord Goode.

“You and Mr. Gallant can take the phaeton,” Michael tells him. “Go to London. Radcliffe will come with you. He can lead you to the addresses of Darwood’s various haunts and associates.”

Goode nods and follows Radcliffe to the phaeton. Gallant hangs back just long enough to draw his face a feather’s distance from Michael’s and whisper, “If this is some kind of trick, Langdon, I will take you to one of my father’s tanning stalls and skin you personally.”

“Noted, Mr. Gallant. Now, away!”

Michael is left alone with a group of startled but dogged-looking young women.

“Ms. Montgomery are you armed?” he asks, leading them to a parked Barouche.

Madison Montgomery frowns. “How in blazing hell can you know about my-”

“Are you armed?”

“YES, I AM ARMED.”

“Good. Go with your friends to the Wolf Inn in Yorkshire. Make inquiries about Albion Darwood, and anyone seen with him. Use your pistol if you need to be…. convincing.”

“I don’t need my pistol to be ‘convincing’, Lord Langdon,” the young woman says. “Let’s go.” Ms. Queenie and Ms. Zoe Benson follow her into the barouche.

Only Coco Vanderbilt remains back. Michael is about the ask her why, when footsteps sound at the mouth of the Abbey. Michael whips round to see his Aunt Meade, running toward him in ground eating strides.

“Michael,” she cries, “what is this I hear about-”

“Listen very carefully, Aunt,” Michael interrupts her. “I want you to walk back down to the revel and tell everyone on the premises that they are to return to their coaches and scour the country for Ms. Y/n.”

“Good lord, is she missing?”

“Yes,” Michael hisses. “Now listen! I want every estate turned over and shaken. I want the rookeries upended. Every count, maid, courtesan, beggar, Bow St runner, chimney sweep and pickpocket in England is to search for her. Tell them that the Duke of Langdon commands it.”

Meade casts him a worrying look before running back to the stairs.

“What are you still doing here, Ms. Vanderbilt?” Michael asks, striding to his own coach.

“I am going with you!” says the girl, as though it were obvious.

“You most certainly are not.”

Coco stretches to her full height, which barely exceeds Michael’s sternum. “I bloody well am!”

“You can’t go with me. Where I am going is dangerous.”

Michael attempts to close the door of his coach but Coco elbows her way in and plops down next to him.

“I know it will be dangerous! That is why I am going with you. Because, your Lordship,” she says, imbuing every vowel of his title with scorn, “I reckon that YOU are going to be going to the place where you REALLY suspect Y/n is being held...”

Michael never credited Coco with possessing a gram more intellect than the yapping canine she is prone to carrying around.

Evidently, he was mistaken.

“EVERLASTING HELL, MS. VANDERBILT! Don’t you think I have endangered enough innocents for one lifetime?”

“Lud, you have,” says Ms. Vanderbilt. Does Michael imagine it, or is her breath heady with brandy? “You are a very…very rude…” She searches for more words. “Fellow. Lord Langdon. But if I have to suffer your company to find my cousin I will!”

She crosses her arms and it does not occur to Michael to argue with her.

They ride into the night in silence, Michael and the girl he threatened to ‘stuff into a cage’ not three days ago.

…….

Lord Ingram, one of Isabella’s erstwhile beaus, has, in hopes of attaining more permanent-beau status, allowed the Darwood siblings free reign of his country estate for the weekend of the Brimstone Society Revels.

Ingram House is as fine an example of Palladian revival as can be found anywhere in England. The walls are of pink Derbyshire alabaster. The ceilings are high and coffered to resemble domes of antiquity. Every room is spacious, tastefully appointed and symmetrical.

Already, Albion has made chaos of the place.

“Lord Ingram is a particular friend of mine,” Isabella told her brother when they arrived. “Try to refrain from denting his columns or turning this estate into your bordello. If you must quench yourself, then, at least avoid doing so in the piano nobile. It is not as if the wenches will mind being carted off to servants quarters…”

“I should have thought any place that had you in it were already a bordello, sister,” her beetle-brained brother retorted with a laugh.

The temerity! Isabella wanted to hit him. She truly did. But Albion would have retaliated, and he was not worth subjecting her face to deterioration. 

It is not until Thursday evening arrives, when Albion has costumed his ridiculous self in the customary mask and black cape and left for Darkholme Abbey, that Isabella knows peace.

Well, not peace, precisely.

Restless thoughts perturb her solitude.

What in hell is she doing here, she asks herself. Why is she alone in a night dress so close to the Abbey that she can practically taste the waft of musk and frankincense? The truth snags at the frayed edges of her pride. ‘Because you can’t let go’. ‘Because you are sentimental.’

Isabella enjoyed attending Revels when Leo was alive. She enjoyed the power; or, rather, as she more correctly identifies it now, the proximity to power. The spray of blood was like hot rain on her face. She was drunk with the brutality of it all. How could she not be? It was wrath, sex, gore; the pinnacle of everything that she was brought up not to be, and not to want. Leo let flow rivers of blood for her; ‘so that I might smile,’ she once thought.

Isabella can smell it on her body still: carnage. To everyone else, she smells of vanilla and jasmine blossom. But the blood scent is there, even when she bathes. It spirals around her in tiny plumes that no perfume can quite cover. She is like Lady Macbeth that way.

Now, she wonders if she was merely trying to impress Leo. How singularly pathetic that would be: a cow taking up blades to assist in the slaughterhouse.

Isabella is cradling her second glass of wine in a quarter hour when Travers, the footman, arrives to announce visitors.

“Lord Ingram is in London,” she says, waiving him away without a glance.

“But Madam, they h-have asked for y-you,” the footman says.

Isabella looks up and recognizes in his expression some profound dis-ease.

“Travers, you look as though you have seen Satan,” she laughs.

The youth trembles. Only when Michael Langdon, trailed inexplicably by Coco Vanderbilt, bursts into the drawing room, does she fathom why.

The Duke of Langdon fills the space, as ever, with more than mere physical presence. His expression is so forbidding that he seems to emit electricity. The hairs at the nape of Isabella’s neck rise excitedly.

“Leave us, Travers,” she says.

Michael’s red cape billows as he sweeps past the footman. Beneath it, his shirt is unfastened, revealing a plane of frost-pale skin. Isabella ignores her screaming instinct to cross the room and plant her lips there. There is a pistol holstered at his waist, a shining bit of craftsmanship which she knows he has no misgivings using.

“What brings you to Ingram House, Michael?” she asks, affecting calm. “And tonight, of ALL nights, when you should be tending to your nest of vipers.”

She is about to take a drink from her glass when Michael startles her by demanding, “WHERE IS SHE?”

Isabella blinks.

“Where is who?”

“You know who.”

The blue of his eyes has never glowed as it does now, bright and remote as the northern lights. The observation fills Isabella with undesirable emotions. But it only takes a moment to recover.

“I have no idea what are talking about,” she tells him truthfully.

Ignoring the Duke of Langdon’s glare, she rises to her slippered feet, drains her glass, and sets it on the side table. Only a dunce could fail to cobble an idea of what has occurred. And Isabella is no dunce.

“Your bedmate is missing, I take it?” she says.

There is too much brass in Isabella’s voice for Michael’s liking. Standing in this room, looking down at her, he feels humanity sucked out of him like marrow from a bone. He would crush her if it meant having you back. He would maim every spindly footman in the building if it would reveal your exact whereabouts. It would be like nothing. And you would loathe him forever after.

“Well?” asks Isabella.

“Ms. Y/n is missing.”

“Objects tend to be where one last put them,” says Isabella airily. “Unless, that is, they have been tossed out with the rubbish.”

“Do. Not. Trifle. Isabella.”

Her chin lifts in determination. “I am not. Trifling. Michael.”

Michael can feel Coco Vanderbilt bristle over this use of Christian names. Your cousin is annoyed on your behalf, he realizes. For a moment, he is transported out of the nightmare reality that has sprouted. Does this mean that you still feel for him?

“Where is your brother?” he asks, shaking the thought away.

Isabella’s body straightens defensively. Even the rounded softness of her appears jagged with tension. “Albion is supposed to be at your revel.”

“Well he isn’t.”

Isabella circles round the daybed and takes up her ivory snuff box. She pinches at the rose and attar flavoured tobacco and brings it to her nose. As she does so, her eyes come to rest upon the shape of Coco Vanderbilt. “Michael, why is this young tart with you?” she asks, clicking the box shut.

“Leave her out of it,” snaps Michael.

“I was under the impression that you had pledged your troth to only ONE member of the petticoat line,” Isabella laughs. “Clearly, I was mistaken.”

Ms. Vanderbilt’s mouth opens in outrage, but Michael speaks first.

“I will ask you once more, Isabella. If I have to ask again, it will be under decidedly less peaceable conditions. Where is your brother?”

It is unnecessary to brandish his pistol. She knows it is there. All the same, Michael rests a hand to his hip to remind her of its existence.

“I told you, I thought he was with you.” A malevolent smile twists Isabella’s lips. “Really, Michael. All of this storm and stress over a woman whose person is so…. unremarkable.”

Michael’s rage feels too big and raw for this ridiculous room, with its snuffboxes and tinkering china. “It may behoove you to keep such judgements to yourself,” he grits. “You never know what a man in grief is liable to do.”

“In grief?” Isabella says, unable to mask the spike of interest in her voice.

“Where is your brother, Lady Darrrrrrwood?” Coco Vanderbilt stumbles forward and shouts. “It is clearly Lord Derrrwood who has taken my cousin. I’ll bet he wants to rid the world of your rival for the Duke’s affections!”

“My rival?” says Isabella, feigning confusion.

“That’s right,” snarls Coco, insinuating herself between the two taller, icier mortals. “But only in your addle-pated mind!”

What becomes evident to Michael now is just HOW drunk Ms. Vanderbilt got at the revel. It is not a disaster in that she is not teetering on her feet, or retching over Lord Ingram’s tapestries, but she is jug-bitten to be sure; jug-bitten enough to be throwing insults at the only creature in the world who might help them in their pursuit of you.

“I cannot imagine what a pudding-faced little heiress like you thinks she knows of ‘lovers’ and ‘rivals’,” scoffs Isabella.

“I know enough to know that YOU’LL never have HIM!” cries Coco, raising her finger in Michael’s general direction as though he is a prime piece of horseflesh. “Although, in truth, neither of you deserves better, the Duke being a beast, and you being his dead father’s light’o’love!” 

Isabella narrows her eyes. “I ought to cut your ears off to teach you some manners, harpy.”

Coco moves to close the last of the distance between them, but Michael holds her back.

“Please, Ms. Vanderbilt,” he tells your cousin. “Allow me to deal with Lady Darwood.”

“She is not a lady!” cries Coco, assailing his nostrils with brandy fumes. “Lady Darwood merely wears the disguise of one!”

“How poetical of you, Ms. Vanderbilt,” Isabella taunts over Michael’s shoulder. “Now, shall I acquaint you with some of the ‘disguises’ your father wears when he’s fuc-” 

“ENOUGH!” bellows Michael. “I beg you, Ms. Vanderbilt, adjure to the daybed, and hold your tongue.”

He gives her a look that says, in as eloquent a way possible without speech: ‘Y/n’s very life may depend upon what we say now.’

To Michael’s relief, the girl obeys. She sits on the day bed with her back sword straight and her eyes burning Isabella from across the room. The older woman smirks at her, sanguine with the knowledge of just how much more dangerous she is.

“What are you grieving, Michael?” Isabella asks, turning to him without missing a beat. “Did your angel abandon you when she learned of your sordid past?”

Michael sets his jaw. It is all the answer she requires. Isabella’s eyes darken with the bitterest satisfaction that he has ever beheld.

“Now you know what it is like,” she says, “to look into a person’s face, and see the moment their love dies.”

Once upon a time, Michael considered Isabella Darwood to be the most voluptuous form the devil ever took. He shivered with want of her. Now, he sees her as she is. Her world is still as small and as crushing as it was the day Leo Langdon’s eyes fell on her from across a crowded parlour.

Michael wonders how, in the world, EVER, he thought he loved her.

“Do you know where Albion might have taken Y/n?” he asks.

He keeps his voice gentle, aware of the volcano of jealousy that is liable spew its ashes and cover any hope there is of recovering you.

Michael must keep you alive.

That is all that matters.

If it means putting his hand on Isabella Darwood’s shoulder and squeezing affectionately, this is what he will do.

So, he does it.

Isabella’s breath hitches at the contact. She regards the hand that rests on her skin with a mixture of longing and skepticism. But at least her defiance has cooled. She no longer holds herself aloof.

After several moments of stillness, she angles her neck and brushes his knuckles with her cold, soft cheek.

“I know the place,” she whispers at last, “where Albion liked to take bodies after revels held at Darkholme Abbey.”

Michael is horror-struck. It takes every nail of control that was ever hammered into him, to keep from reacting.

He cannot react.

He needs Isabella to keep talking.

“When revels were held in London, he dropped the corpses into the river at Westminster pier before dawn broke,” she says. “But when it was Darkholme Abbey, Albion felt Romantic. There is a special spot on the coastline where the cliffs rise the highest, and the view of the sea is unmatched…”

“Lead us there,” says Michael, leaning in close, keeping up the unbearable seduction, knowing that if she does not comply, you will be dead before morning. “Please, Isabella....”

He leans down and touches his lips to the thin skin on her hand. “Please…”

At the far end of the room, Ms. Vanderbilt lets out a disapproving breath over the contact, then quickly pretends to be fascinated by the upholstery.

Thankfully, Isabella ignores her. “I was not the orchestrator of this, Michael,” she tells him. There is a raw note in her voice that suggests she is desperate to be believed. “If Albion has taken her, he acted on his own. I had nothing to do with it.”

She places her other hand on top of Michael’s and clasps.

“Do you believe me?”

“Of course I do. Now please let us go find your brother. I beg you.”

Only when the three unlikeliest of companions are sealed inside of a coach and rushing toward the sea, does Isabella say, “Your tactics were transparent, Michael.”

“I know,” he answers. “But they worked.”

She shrugs. “Sometimes one is weary of resisting. Either way, I thank you for your trust.”

Michael does not credit Isabella with morals she does not possess, nor mercies she has never demonstrated. She has no qualms regarding the kidnap and ruin of young ladies. But she is not stupid. 

“Why should you thank me for believing you are not insane enough to court my vengeance? Still, it does you no credit that you could not anticipate your brother’s actions…” 

“It does YOU no credit that you have frittered away the life of the only woman to whom you have ever considered surrendering yourself. To say nothing,” Isabella adds, “of her love.”

She is right, Michael knows. And for once, he cannot disguise the truth with fury, or pin the blame elsewhere.

This is his fault.

His fault, entirely.

He reels at the memories of his transgressions. He has not allowed himself, too often in the last twenty-four hours, to dwell upon the things he said to you. But images assail him now, in the dark of the coach, making him cringe in shame.

He remembers your eyes, bleary with tears.

He remembers your face contorted in horror.

He remembers his cruelty. His fear. His morbid stupidity...

‘ Do you imagine that I felt anything when I seduced you? ’

‘ The pleasure of ruining you, Ms. Y/n, was tempered only by the ease with which it was accomplished…’

‘ You hang upon me like a bout of shingles… ’

This, and much more, Michael said to you.

You stood up to him, in your trembling courage. You told him to, one day, allow himself ‘to be loved.’

The words settled on his soul like a death mask molded to perfect fit. 

Michael closes his eyes and lets his head lean back against leather, as though the removal of sight might shield him from the sear of his remorse. It does not work. Guilt makes carrion of his brains.

Albion Darwood has you.

And you might be…

No, he will not think it.

Michael hunches forward and drops his head into his hands, entirely heedless of the two women sharing the coach with him. Wetness issues from his eyes.

Eventually, the nightingale voice of Coco Vanderbilt breaks through to him.

“It will be all right, Lord Langdon,” says the girl. “Y/n is a clever person.”

Isabella, smirks beside her, poised as a statue.

Michael sits up and wrestles back some of his lost composure.

Through the window, the sea is a mass of darkness.

“You have been too much in the habit of getting what you want,” Isabella says.

A decade of insight is contained in those few words, Michael thinks. Little good it does him now.

“Y/n is in danger," says Isabella. "I can try helping you. I owe you that much, Michael, though you think me a monster. Albion is…” She absent-mindedly strokes a faint scar on her left forearm. Michael noticed it for the first time ten years ago, and she told him, erroneously, that it was the result of a riding accident. “Albion is… Well, a man with a little bit of power is often more dangerous than one whose power is absolute. Big men like you piss all over the world. But small men like Albion like to take out their dominance on even smaller things.”

Michael is not sure what to say to that.

“If your lover dies,” Isabella says, “it will be better. You won’t have to think about her living out there in the world without you.”

“Is that what happened when you fucked him and then went back to fucking his father?” asks Coco Vanderbilt. She punctuates her question with a small, dainty burp.

Isabella and Michael turn to the girl in unison.

“Michael,” says Isabella acidly. “This young woman appears to be foxed.”

“YOU’RE the fox, Lady Darwood….” Says Coco, drooping in her seat a little. “I merely asked a question.”

To Coco’s mind it is a question both fair and earnest. She needs certain details to elucidated for when she tells Chesterton about her coach ride with the two evillest people in Britain.

Michael opens his mouth to say something disparaging about how Coco can possibly focus on gossip at a time like this, when the coach slows, signalling arrival at their destination.

Coco stares with inebriated wonder as the devil man with an angel’s countenance bolts up frantically, kicks the door open, and surges into the velvet night before the carriage has drawn to a full halt.

…………………….

You come to with your cheek resting against something cold. The remaining sensory details arrive slowly.  A bright line of pain throbs beneath the skin at your temple. You press the heel of your hand there and grit your teeth. The side of your face was struck, you remember. The coach you are in is still moving too quickly. Through the window, the night is obsidian, with only a jagged shore and the fish scale shimmer of sea painted there by moonlight. Before a scream can form in your mouth, something you guess to be the barrel of a pistol presses into the softness between two ribs. You turn to behold your kidnapper, and, as though his point has not already been made, he cocks the gun. 

Albion Darwood smiles with too many teeth. They gleam like tiny rows of daggers in the moonlight, ready to cut the night into pieces. He is a burly man- uncharacteristically so for the dissipated circles he moves in. Strength, he exudes, but not vitality. When he breathes, you have the impression of something being forced; of a pair of rusted bellows blasting air. He is not a handsome man, and proximity pays him no tribute. At this range you begin to see a resemblance between him and his sister. But it is like reading text that has lost its poetry in translation. Isabella’s celebrated lips become a pair of blood-glutted leeches. Her white skin attains the pallor of a dead man in a shroud. They smile the same though, with viciousness that is not easily dampened, even in the courteous air of ballrooms.

“That is much better, Ms. Y/n,” says Darwood. “Silence is preferable to screeching, is it not?”

His voice is lighter than you expect; a terrible, hollow thing that makes you think of broken shells, and bodies drained of blood. It lacks some essential quality that can be recognized only in its absence. Humanity, perhaps.

Your eyes dart in the direction of the driver.

“You need not bother pestering Croft,” says Albion. “He is loyal to me.”

“Where are you taking me?” you demand. “Why am I here?”

“My, my… and they said you were CLEVER.”

“Let me out of this coach at once, Lord Darwood!” you say. Fear that has latches itself to your viscera like a thing feral.

“You are hardly in a position to give orders, Ms. Y/n.”

Darwood pushes the barrel in deeper. Everything he does is calculated to remind you that you are fleshly and easily damaged. How is one to deal with such a man? How does one reason with a person whose primary means of expression is violence?

In his diary, Leo Langdon called Darwood ‘a slave to his vices’. Some of these, like gambling and opium eating, are pedestrian enough. Others are the food of nightmares.

You were not able to stomach reading the entirety of most ‘Albion’ passages in the diary. You saw names, and dates. Your imagination etched out the rest.

‘You will survive this,’ you promise yourself. ‘Whatever happens, you will survive it somehow. You will live and you will find your way back to Michael.’

“I admit,” says Darwood, “when my sister first made me aware of Langdon’s ‘tendre’ for you, I thought it a smudge on his impeccable taste. But now, seeing you like this, I can understand something of the allure…”

Bile rises in your throat. Darwood’s hand clasps around your wrist. You try to wrench free, but it closes tighter. You feel the scrape of nails, overgrown and curving like talons. There is a large ring on his left middle finger. Its diamond glitter fills the coach like a sprinkling of starlight in a void.

“It is the pleasure of breaking you,” whispers Albion, leaning in until the back of your head meets the coolness of window. “Therein lies the attraction.”

His breath smells of rot, wine and meat. The urge to gag is nearly uncontainable. But you contain it. You will not give him that pleasure.

“I dislike like women like you,” he goes on, by way of explanation. “They are an aberration of nature. They do not recognize the proper of order of things. How would it be, Ms. Y/n, if sheep or dogs were given to commanding their masters? Or if baboons felt it necessary to give their opinions on matters of statecraft?”

 “From what I know of you, Albion Darwood, you owe a great deal to your sister. And unless I, and the vast proportion of inheriting males in this country are mistaken, she qualifies as a woman.”

“You know nothing of Isabella,” he hisses.

*SMACK*

With the impact, your vision turns white as the sky before a snow squall, or the crest of a falling wave. Sight returns grain by grain.

The ring on Darwood’s middle finger has broken the skin beneath your cheekbone; you know by the way his eyes follow the trickle of blood.

A new tactic will be attempted, you decide.

Instead of fighting, you make yourself shrivel in his grasp.

“Forgive me, Lord Darwood,” you say, feigning deference. “It is only that Lady Darwood is… beautiful. I know that Lord Langdon is in love with her. She has haunted him for ten long years. How am I to compete with that?” 

You look away and begin to cry. They are real tears, fat and flowing. It takes no effort at all.

“He h-had me, my Lord,” you whisper softly. “But h-he left me...”

“Is that so?” A grin widens Darwood’s face. “Did you think the Duke of Langdon cared for you?”

Once, in what feels like another lifetime, Madison Montgomery advised you that the best way to lie is to pepper one’s falsities with truth. To that end, you look up from under a sweep of wet lashes and nod.

“I love him, my Lord. I love him so much. I do not even regret that I…” you let out a whimper of disgraced modesty, “that I gave him my virtue. It is only, I did not expect the Duke would j-just throw me away!”

A bit of snot dribbles out of your nose. Darwood looks pleased. He thinks of you as something docile. Something not to be hit but to be laugh at. Once more, his worldview is confirmed.

“There, there, little fool,” he says laying his hand on the back of your neck in a skin crawling parody of sympathy. “Your misery will be over soon. Death will be a comfort.”

That stills you. “You mean to kill me?”

“But of course,” says Darwood calmly. “I should not risk keeping you alive to weave your spell on the Duke again.”

“But Lord Langdon and I are finished!” you protest.

“Yes,” agrees Darwood. “But I must make sure that The Duke of Langdon is not tempted away from my sister. If it means I have to purge the world of all its trollops, so be it.”

The carriage slows and Darwood’s beady face brightens. “What timing!” he cries. “We have arrived at our destination.”

The ‘destination’, as it turns out, is a cliff shelf overlooking the sea.

The air is briny and cold. The view afforded would be spellbinding, if you were not about to die.

It is a long drop off the rock face to the crashing waves below, and you have the distinct impression that Albion Darwood means to back you over it. This, he is hoping, will resemble an accident, or an impulsive decision undertaken by a lately debauched and jilted young woman.

Darwood shoves you forward toward the silvery spectacle of moon and water. His pistol at your back cancels out any notion of running.

“Do you really think it will work?” you ask.

“Why wouldn’t it?” he barks behind you. “They won’t find you. And if they do, they will conclude that you chose to die in the sea rather than survive another day of Langdon’s desertion.”

“You aren’t brilliant, are you Darwood?” you say, turning to face him. “Everyone will know it was you!”

“Poppycock!” he spits. “No one will doubt you jumped. Women are such dread IRRATIONAL creatures. And the Duke of Langdon has a reputation for worsening the condition. Tell me, Ms. Y/n, did he tie you up as well?”

Your stomach drops. You squint against the wind, denying Darwood the satisfaction of a reaction.

“Did you know he likes doing that?” asks Darwood. “O yes. Quite the deviant. I received the knowledge from his late father, god rest his soul, who got it from my sister.”

“I was not aware that you were the village gossip, Darwood.”

He frowns. The sea wind is turning him ruddy. “Keep walking, Ms. Y/n,” he says, nudging you forward.

“I pity you for what the Coven will do when they find out what happened to me.”

“The ‘Coven’?!” he laughs. “What are your friends going to do to me, Ms. Y/n? Beat me with their parasols? Dear lord, without men like me and Leo Langdon to set you all in order, you women would run wild!”

You are almost at the edge of the cliff face. All you can think to do is prolong the talking. If the talking stops, you do. But if you keep Darwood enough in outrage, he will be moved to keep yelling at you.

“Do you know what Leo Langdon called you, Darwood?” you say. “ ‘My rottweiler’.”

“You are lying!” he shouts. “You deign to talk of the Duke to me? You never even knew him!”

“No,” you agree. “Thank heaven. But I did read his diary.”

In the darkness, Albion’s tiny black eyes shine like pewter. “Another lie!”

“Michael showed it to me,” you say, instead of ‘he gave it to me’, or ‘it is in Goode Manor as we speak.’”

You can tell by the hitch in Darwood’s breath that he is assessing the plausibility of what you are saying.

“I know about Dorothea Charlton,” you say. “And Eleanor Ravenwood. And Lady Beechum.”

His mouth parts slightly.

“I know about Margaret Hammersmith, and the daughter of the Archduke of Holstein, Maria. I know what you did to Fanny Burley after you kidnapped her. I know why Thomasina Bartholomew’s family left the country.”

You let the names hit him like poniards at close range. You can practically feel the prickle of his thoughts, wondering if Isabella or Leo could have told Michael those names.

“Leo sanctioned your actions,” you say. “Even Earls and Parliamentarians had no way to protect against the might of the Brimstone Society. It was the honour of your life, Darwood.”

“It was,” says Darwood, standing taller. “Everyone knew that I was favored by the great man. More so than his own son, even.”

You make yourself laugh, a harsh puff of sound in the night air. Men like him live in torment of the fear of being laughed it.

“Favored? HA. ‘Albion has the character of a child’.”

Colour drains from Darwoods face as you quote directly from Leo Langdon’s diary.

“ ‘I let him hunt and rape, and he is as grateful as a babe receiving sweets and trinkets. I give him possessions, so and he becomes my possession. He really is my dog.’ That is what he wrote about you. He was right. You let him use your ‘talents’, and your sister. You submitted yourself, like a faithful ‘rottweiler’”

You attempt to cheat yourself sideways as Darwood steps closer, away from the rocks and the dizzying drop.

“SHUT UP YOU SLUT,” screams Darwood. He lunges forward and captures you by the throat.

His hand is shockingly strong. Another moment, another quarter of a centimetre, and your windpipe will be crushed like a berry...

“Not so bullheaded now…” he grits, kneading your throat with his thumb.

You can feel your own pulse everywhere in your body, pounding under the skin like it wants to jump out.

You hate that you are going to die like this, as one big, breakable carotid artery beneath Albion Darwood’s fingers…

‘Thank god I do not have parents,’ you think. It would be awful for them to have to mourn.

‘BUT MICHAEL WILL’ your mind shouts as it is fading into shadow. Michael will mourn…

Michael, who was brutalized half his life; whose love is clumsy and riddled with fear, but blazing and holy…

You act, without thinking. 

Darwood lets out strangled noise as your knee collides with his groin, then doubles over.

He is crouching and clutching himself, pistol in hand. If you run, he will shoot, so you throw yourself on him, hitting, clawing, biting, kicking in an attempt to wrestle it from him.

In your periphery, the coachman leans out of the window, then leaps out of the vehicle.

The struggle is short lived. It does not take long for Darwood’s superior strength to overrule your scrappy efforts. His hand finds the back of your skull and forces it into the dirt. He pins you down, then straddles your hips. His hands wrap around your neck once more. You fight, but it proves futile, like blowing into a fire and making it grow. Darwood squeezes and squeezes...

Until all at once, the crushing weight of him is lifted.

When you open your eyes, Michael Langdon is holding Darwood by the throat with one arm and pummelling his guts the but of a pistol.

Blood flies everywhere. It sounds like meat being hit over and over- which, you suppose is exactly what is happening.

“M-Michael! STOP!”

Darwood’s face- or what formerly resembled a face- is slick and pulpy like a smashed orange.

Michael’s eyes are the clearest, and coldest you have ever seen. He looks demonic, otherworldly, smeared with blood from Albion’s broken jaw.

“MICHAEL STOP!! STOP!”

Michael is about to finish Darwood off, to ring his pestilent life out of him like water from an infected rag, but then you capture his attention.

“You are hurt!” he cries, letting Darwood’s body fall like a reptile’s discarded skin.

His arms are around you, gentle, but everywhere. With mounting horror, Michael catalogues your injuries. He cradles your face and traces the scrape left there by Darwood’s diamond. From his chest issues a soft, pained noise.

“M-michael…” you whisper. “You saved me.”

Though your head throbs, a warm feeling of well-being spreads over your body.

“I had some assistance,” Michael says. He nods his head to the place where two coaches are parked and Coco Vanderbilt stands beside Darwood’s coach driver holding a pink, jewelled dagger to his throat.

“Let’s get you home,” whispers Michael. He bends to scoop you. It has been eons, you think, since last you touched. You sink into him, gooey and molten.

Until-

Albion Darwood rises like a marionette behind Michael, half alive, barely able to hold a pistol…

“NO!!!” you shout.

There is no thought, only the spring of movement, only the compulsion to protect Michael from harm-

A shot is heard, followed by a lancing of pain in your shoulder. It takes a full second for you to absorb the correlation between the two occurrences.

“Y/N!!!!!!!!!!” Michael cries.

Albion raises his pistol again.

Michael throws himself over your body as a shield, then scrabbles for his pistol. Before he can fire, another thunderous shot rends the air.

It is the second time you have witnessed dying.

You father went peaceably, his life a tiny curl of steam leaving a teapot.

Albion Darwood’s death is different. The transition from ‘human’ to ‘matter’ is abrupt. Blood bursts out of his mouth in excited ribbons. Then he falls.

Your mind reels. It is selfish, you think, and unconscionable to be glad for the death of another human being. But Darwood would have killed Michael if someone- BUT WHO???- had not just killed him.

“She’s been shot,” says Lady Isabella Darwood, appearing behind Michael. She drops her gun and walks toward you, white dressing gown billowing around her feet like ocean froth.

Of all the people who dreamt of seeing, she is the last.  

“If you want the bitch to live, bring her to the coach,” she says crouching. She spares no glance for the brother she has just killed. She has eyes only for Michael; and there is a universe of creatures, lurking there in the black depths of her pupils, that long to touch him.

It takes a moment for you to realize that the ‘bitch’ who has been shot is, in fact, you.

That is when sentience begins to fracture.

Michael’s mouth opens as though he is screaming. But you can hear only the sound of your own plodding breath.  

‘There is a hole in me,’ you realize as pain begins to sing.

Blackness covers your vision, first in needles, then in gobs of tar. You are conscious of events occurring, but they feel as though they are happening far away- Michael ripping one of his sleeves off and wrapping it against your shoulder; the sensation of being lifted and carried, of burrowing into his chest, of smelling his familiar smell and pressing your lips to a mad staccato of heartbeat…

Then nothing.

…………………………

Physicians arrive and remove the bullet. The risk of infection is great.

You are delirious, but not enough that you do not feel death ripening in the wound.

The fever wracks for days.

Existence is composed of sounds, mainly. You are aware, at times, of lying in a bed. You hear voices around you. Lady Goode’s. Coco’s. Queenie’s. Zoe’s. Damp cloths are run up and down your body.

Michael… Michael is there. He does not leave your side. By night, he lies curled up against your body and chases away the cold. By day he sits on the chair and, though you cannot see him, you feel him watching.

One of the physicians suggests bleeding you, then mentions leeches. Michael unleashes a stream of profanities. The doctor is only trying to help, you think, and there goes Michael, being monstrous.

He swears and threatens.

“DO YOU THINK I WON’T FOLLOW YOU INTO THE AFTERLIFE, CHIT?” “Don’t you DARE think of dying!” “Do you think to be rid of me that easily!?” “You have things to do, you little termagant. PAMPHLETS TO WRITE!” “O my love…” “Please… Please… Please…”

Once, he cries into your hair and scolds for what must be hours. “Taking a bullet meant for me… What is the meaning of that? IDIOT,” he sobs.

Michael sounds crazed, begging and bargaining with you to live, kneeling and kissing your hands, weeping until he is hoarse and breathless. You have never heard such longing, or such madness. Dying would be a cruelty to him. The fool would probably regard it as retribution for his crimes.

Lady Goode sets to work grinding honey and willow bark for the wound. Michael begs to be useful. She lets him chop and stir.

The coven speaks to the Duke in gentle tones- that is when you really begin to fear. They are KIND to him; urging him to sleep, eat and bathe. He doesn’t. You want to yell at him that all those things sound like good ideas, but the fever burns. Your mouth and eyelids remain sealed as though by concrete.

“Langdon, if she wakes and sees you looking like THAT,” says Lady Goode, “you’ll frighten her into the grave.”

Then, one day, your eyes open. There is a figure sitting by your bed, holding his disheveled head in his hands.

Only when vision sharpens to you recognize Michael’s face.

He looks different. Older. Tired. Hollowed out. For a moment, you wonder if he is even real. Perhaps it is only a vision, stitched together from tatters of your dreams. But that is impossible! He has a beard now, and why would your mind stitch THAT? Michael, who writes the holy commandments of every dandy in London, has neglected to shave…

“M-michael?”

He leaps as though startled by a gunshot.

In moments, he is lifting your head and feeding you water.

“Drink it,” he commands. His voice sounds weak and thick.

You do not argue. When you finish the first cup, Michael brings you more. After you have downed what seems like all the water there is in the world, you open your mouth to speak.

Michael presses his ear close, not wishing you to labour.

“I-is it t-time for the fifth night?” you croak.

……………………..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING this chapter! Man, did I ever struggle with it! (I am either running out of juuuuuice to write this particular tale, or ‘action’y things are just the hardest thing ever to write! It beats me!)  
> I am bolded over with gratitude every. Darn. Time. for all of your generosity and encouragement. We are coming up near the end of the story. Next chapter will likely be the last, followed by an epilogue!  
> Thanks for being on this journey with me! You guys make me the happiest and I don’t deserve your precious time! :D  
> ‘Piano nobile’ is a term sometimes applied to the rich people part of a stately home (most notably in old timey France). Isabella advises her brother to take prostitutes to the servants quarters, which would have been on another, less fancy, floor of the house. She's got a good thing going with Lord Ingram so she doesn't want anyone to wreck the place.  
> ‘Lud’ is a regency era expression that’s kind of like ‘dayum but…’ or ‘o my’ or ‘o lord!’  
> Isabella compares herself to Lady Macbeth from Shakespeare’s play who said that "All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand." *chills!*  
> Coco just had to use that pink dagger she had strapped to her waist in chapter 12 haha.  
> Samuel Johnson DID say that about brandy lol. It would appear that Lord Vanderbilt has at least one very intellectual drinking buddy.  
> Bleeding people, and applying leeches to their body to suck up ‘bad blood’ during times of ailment was a common practice in the olden days. People often died from infected wounds. If you were lucky, somebody in the know would apply some kind of antiseptic to the flesh….  
> Hope this chapter was not an utter bust, y’all!  
> Love you to Saturn and back xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAH so nervous to put a new thing on the internet!!!
> 
> This story is, obviously, a regency AU with no supernatural elements, so something scarily new to write! I hope that it is not a complete and utter failure.  
> Even though I have taken some effort to research history, I know that this story has and will have certain anachronisms going forward. The sexual attitudes of many of the characters, for example, are more liberated than they probably would have been at the time. Ditto the astronomy stuff, it may be off by a few years or so, here or there. Apologies for those whom this might annoy! (like my partner lol!)  
> The phrase 'a truth universally acknowledged' is Jane Austen and woven into the dna of English ha. I took the liberty of using it to describe what a favored by fortune fiend Michael's dad was.  
> I have included some fun Georgian era slang into the mix (Hedge-Whore, Addle Pate and Lobcock are REAL insults from the era).  
> Many details regarding The Brimstone Society are based on the real life Hellfire Club. ‘Fais ce que tu voudras’ means 'Do What Thou Wilt' and it was basically the Hellfire Club's whole philosophy in a nutshell.  
> The 'ton', is a term used for high society.  
> Also, I could not resist embroiling Caroline Herschel into these sordid proceedings, for which I hope I am forgiven.  
> I am sure that there is something I have neglected to mention!  
> I am really grateful for anyone who gives this story a chance. I am still finding my way in this genre, and am both excited and very scared to do it!  
> Thank you to all the commenters on my previous work, who gave me encouragement. And for helping me make my decision to make this a reader insert!  
> Oceans of love xo
> 
> Pps. This qork will have multiple chapters i made a mistake posting it as a one shot by accident
> 
> ps. O AND, SMUT IT COMING I PROMISE. There will be an overabundance of smut.


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